The Adventure of the Two Greek Ladies
by Phineas Redux
Summary: Xena and Gabrielle meet a Victorian super-criminal. Sherlock Holmes meets two women who are more dangerous than even he assumes.
1. Chapter 1

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Xena and Gabrielle meet a Victorian super-criminal. Sherlock Holmes meets two women who are more dangerous than even he assumes.

1. The events of this story take place just a few weeks after Holmes's dramatic return in 'The Empty House', early in 1894; after his disappearance at the Reichenbach Falls three years before.

2. If it is thought that Xena and Gabrielle are not speaking in their usual voices, remember that these notes were written by Dr Watson after the event; possibly some years later.

3. I do not consider this story a Crossover because no characters are based on any Holmes TV series or film, but the original stories by Conan Doyle.

4. For *'s see Notes at end of chapter.

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**Disclaimer—**MCA/Universal/RenPics own all copyrights to everything related to 'Xena: Warrior Princess' and I have no rights to them.

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'**The Adventure of the Two Greek Ladies.'**

**Chapter 1**

The astonishing events surrounding Miss Maltravers and the Garibaldi shirt* had been closed satisfactorily just a week previously. Not a paragraph had appeared in the daily papers, for which her family were extremely grateful; though Holmes passed off the strange affair as insignificant. I had safely consigned the case-notes to my tin dispatch-box in the vaults of Cox & Co, Charing Cross*. Since then, with no new cases in the offing, Holmes had become exasperated with the mundane tranquillity of normal life.

"The Normal, Watson!" He uttered the word with contempt as he stood by the tall window looking out on Baker Street on a rainy afternoon early in May. "There is so much of it. There really should be a Law to check the utterly commonplace in Society! Don't you think so?"

"_From every point of view the erroneousness of the world in which we believe we live is the surest and firmest thing we can get our eyes on._"* I quoted from a German author whom I had recently had occasion to peruse. "On the other hand, I personally think the backbone of the Empire is built on the merely Conventional!"

"Ha! Watson, I do declare you are turning philosopher on me! Where can it end?"

"I'll stick to my medical practice thank you, Holmes."

"The Conventional, you say!" Holmes continued musing, apparently unhearing of my remark, as he put a long finger to his chin and carried on gazing at the pedestrians traversing the wet pavements outside. "How I prefer the outré! The uncanny! The inexplicable! But what chance is there of such on a rainy May afternoon in London?"

"What about Lestrade's invitation to Scotland Yard?" I reminded him of a conversation with the worthy policeman the previous Saturday, when he had spoken of seeing us both in his office for an idle chat. Which both Holmes and I translated as a request to perhaps help with some as yet impenetrable case on hand.

"Lestrade can wait!" The tall figure at the window had suddenly straightened and he leaned slightly forward, his attention locked on something in the street outside. "Ha! Watson! Perhaps things are not quite so humdrum as they were. There are two ladies standing on the opposite pavement. Both curious in several differing ways!"

I cast aside 'The Times' and joined him to look out at the figures he indicated. There was only a desultory coming and going in the damp rain-streaked street, so the two women were instantly recognisable by their very immobility.

"Come, what do you think? You know my methods!"

"Well." I paused to study them more closely. "A tall dark-haired lady, with a much shorter and blonde-haired companion. They have stopped but seem somewhat uncomfortable. What can it be? Ah, yes! The younger blonde lady appears to find her skirt something of an encumbrance. No doubt the rain!"

"Almost, Watson. I have hopes for you yet." Holmes smiled in that tight-lipped manner which was so much a part of him. "Uncomfortable, yes! The weather, no! It is the very nature of her clothes which so disturb her, don't you see!"

"How do you mean, Holmes?"

"The length of the skirt is obviously alien to her." The great detective examined his prey with sharp eyes. "The tightness of the waistline also appears to cause some discomfort. And you note, of course, the curious shrugging of the shoulders? She is not at one with her upper garments either, I surmise!"

"So what do you make of her, er, discomposure?"

"Oh, it is quite straightforward, Watson. Her clothes—her English clothes—are not what she is used to in her native clime, where such things are perhaps rather more relaxed and even easy-going! You, of course, have not failed to note her long stride, in the few steps she has taken; and the dark tan of both ladies hands and faces? The answer provides itself!"

"And that is—what?" I was forced to ask a few moments later, when it became obvious Holmes thought he had presented all the necessary facts regarding the two women.

"Oh, simply that they are both clearly Greek! Arrived here quite recently—within the last two weeks, I should say."

"Greek!" I was astonished. If he had stated they were American I may have had reason to take him at his word. But Greek!

"Of course!" Holmes turned to grin broadly at me before transferring his interest back to the outside scene. "If they had been—for instance—American, they would exhibit a more bronzed colouring. But they are quite olive-skinned. The taller of the two intrigues me! She has what I would instantly categorize, in a man, as a military bearing! There is the air of an officer about her; a Lady, I fancy, of some standing in her Society. They are both hatless, so you may also take note of their hairstyles. Not English, I think you will agree, Watson?"

For the first time I did stop to take a closer look at the hair of the two women, where they still stood on the opposite pavement some forty feet away. It was just as Holmes said. It was quite obvious that their hair, now my attention had been brought to the matter, was styled in a way that was indeed not in the prevailing English fashions.

"But their nationality, Holmes?" I was still somewhat at sea with my friend's reasoning. "What makes you decide—merely from a hairstyle—that someone is Greek?"

"Simple, Watson." Holmes allowed himself a small smile. "I am also, as you know, able to lip-read! They are speaking Greek to each other over there!"

"Ha!" I grunted; then catching his eye, burst out laughing. "You know, Holmes, I think if you ever went on the stage Dan Leno* himself would have to search for another occupation!"

"Enough!" He stepped back from the window and looked at me excitedly. "They are crossing the street, and their destination is here! Shout down to Mrs Hudson to show them both up immediately. You know how well the good woman can bar the way, when she is in the mood to protect my privacy!"

-OOO-

As the women came up the stairs to our door we heard one of our visitors addressing Mrs Hudson in a beautiful contralto voice.

"Thank you. Yes, we wish to talk with Mr Holmes."

"I fancy we shall not need the services of Mr Melas*." Holmes glanced towards me as we both stood ready to welcome the ladies.

Another instant found them both standing on our rather threadbare carpet. The taller dark lady gazed composedly straight into Holmes's face with a peculiar intensity. Her fair-haired companion's attention seemed taken up by the unfortunate design of bullet pockmarks on the far wall; placed there by Holmes in one of his more spirited moments*.

"You are Holmes?" Her voice was deep and commanding in a way I had rarely heard in a woman before.

"Madame! May I be of assistance to you?" Holmes regarded the tall woman with sharp intensity.

"My friend and I need your help." She regarded both of us like a general addressing his officers. "You, perhaps, may need ours!"

I was intrigued; as I saw my friend was, by these confident women: but what their motives were remained dark.

"You have the advantage of us at the moment, ladies!" Holmes stared back at the woman with the same determined gaze as she focussed on him. After a moment he gestured towards an armchair with a rapid movement of his hand.

"Thank you." The dark lady sat in the disreputable leather armchair which Holmes waved her to. Her friend, at his insistence, took the more cheerful chintz covered chair opposite.

After a slight pause it was the dark lady; obviously the principal, who began to explain the details of what became one of the most curious cases which Holmes and I were ever involved in.

"My friend and I have come from far away." Her voice was warm, deep and somehow dangerous in its tone; her blue eyes exhibiting a curious iciness which made me nervous. "My name is Xena—er, Athenopolos. My friend is Gabrielle—Potidais."

As I looked into the face of the lady by her side I was struck by the gentleness of her features, and by the remarkable clarity of her pale green eyes of a tint I had rarely seen.

"We have information of a political nature concerning your country which is of the utmost import." Miss Athenopolos looked at us with something less than respect, I thought. "Elements of those who have governed Greece for a long time are also intimately involved!"

"But what can Britain's political situation have to interest either Greece or two such ladies as yourselves?" I fear my words must have hit a nerve, as the dark lady turned to face me with an expression that boded ill. I had the impression she was naturally quick-tempered.

"Britain, like Rome before it, rules the known world through its Empire!" Her words were nearly spat out through clenched teeth. "When any country rules most of the world it gains far more enemies than friends. I've seen it before!"

"And this affects our present Government—in what way?" Holmes cut to the heart of the matter in his usual way.

"Xena!" Her friend also broke in, putting a restraining hand on her companion's arm. "They can help us. Remember what Ar—er, shouldn't you show them the letter?"

"Ah! I forgot!" Miss Athenopolos, who in her turn had apparently been deciding just how much we could be trusted, suddenly dived a hand into her red leather reticule. "We are also in touch with someone else who has an interest in the present situation. I have brought a letter from him. Addressed to you, of course!"

With this she handed over a small white envelope which he simply unfolded and quickly read the letter inside before offering it, wordlessly, to me. When I straightened the single page and read the superscription I must admit that a surprise awaited me. It was from none other than Holmes's brother Mycroft!

'Diogenes Club.

Pall Mall

London. May, 1894.

Dear Sherlock,

You will, no doubt, have already made a passingly competent deduction of your two visitor's standings. But let me fill in those few gaps which may yet elude you.

Miss Athenopolos and her companion Miss Potidais came to my Department highly recommended by letters from certain ministers of my acquaintance in Athens. Due to the new undersea telegraph lines it is now possible, of course, to send and receive messages within hours if not minutes of each other. A great improvement on the days, not so long ago, when such messages would take several weeks or months for the round trip.

The replies were satisfactory, if couched in rather hazy terms; but I can speak for the integrity of the two ladies who now stand before you. Trust them and act on their advice in this curious matter. Wholly depending on the nation's best interests, of course!

Mycroft.

"Maybe I should tell them the facts, Xena?" Miss Potidais put a hand on the arm of her dark friend who nodded silently and glanced at the younger woman with what was obviously deep friendship.

"Tell me, Mr Holmes," Miss Potidais's gaze was straight and sure in her turn. "is it true that you have had recent acquaintance with the infamous Colonel Sebastian Moran?"

Holmes, who had been idly flicking through a pile of notes heaped on a sidetable, froze in place. I too was astounded for an instant: we both exchanged glances at this surprising reference.

"What, madam, do _you_ know of the worthy Colonel?" My friend turned slowly to fix the slight young woman with a cold gaze; to which, I have to admit, the lady seemed impervious.

"I believe that just a few weeks ago he made himself—somewhat insufferable to you!" Miss Potidais almost smiled; or perhaps sneered. I found it difficult to read her expression.

Both Holmes and I inadvertently looked over to the wall, opposite the window. Here lay yet another, fresher, bullet pockmark in the plaster; evidence of the expert aim of the Colonel and his famous air-powered gun!* Sometimes I myself thought our living-room was beginning to exhibit more bullet-holes than the Malamute Saloon;* a criticism to which Holmes, at the time, had merely grunted in reply.

"He certainly made his presence felt!" Holmes's twist of the lips could hardly be taken for a smile. "But he was apprehended by the police at once—"

"And has since escaped again; though the fact is not yet public knowledge!" The resolute Greek lady finished on her own account. "And is at large as we speak. I wonder if you know where he is right now?"

My friend stood erect, with a sharp light in his eye as he gazed on the two seated women.

"Yes, Mr Holmes, he is in London at this very moment." The blonde-haired woman spoke in a sombre, dramatic tone. "Where, I do not precisely know; but here, certainly!"

"And his intent, madam?"

There was a short space of time; which to me at least appeared an eternity, while the women looked at each other, gauging the power of their news.

"He was, apparently, somewhat vexed by his failure to complete his plot against you. Since then he has developed a rather sinister obsession. He wants revenge; against you, Mr Holmes, and against the powers-that-be in this country." Miss Potidais's tone, though clear, had a hard edge. "He originally meant to kill your Prime Minister, Mr Gladstone. But with the fall of his Government* and retiral there is no longer anything to gain in that. He has switched his attention elsewhere."

"Lord Rosebery!" I cried. The relatively youthful leader of the Liberals had barely been in power a month as yet.

"No! He is regarded by Moran, and his backers, as insignificant." Miss Potidais went on in her mellifluous voice. "He will hardly last a year—two at the most, they surmise! No. They want to cause terror; and horror! Do something that will bring the country to its knees: perhaps even affect the Empire itself!"

For a length of time which I shall never be able to measure in memory accurately there was silence. Holmes did not speak, and finally it was I who broke the stillness; my voice echoing in the high-ceilinged room.

"The Queen!"

Miss Athenopolos nodded, looking all the while at Holmes through narrowed eyes.

Holmes walked over to stand in front of the fireplace; casting a yearning glance at the Persian slipper which contained his most aromatic tobacco as he did so.

"There is evidence of this—dastardly plot, I assume?"

"Colonel Moran is—known to my friend, Gabrielle!" Miss Athenopolos looked appraisingly at the detective. "She was—given—a letter which he, as yet, does not know has gone slightly astray. Here it is! Perhaps it will make you change your mind?"

Holmes nearly snatched the envelope from the ladies hand as she extracted it from her handbag. The first thing he did, after opening the folded single sheet which it contained, was to hold the paper to his nose and inhale deeply. Then he held the page up to the light and examined the texture minutely. Only after this did he deign to read the closely-written text.

"The faintest aroma of narcissi. Our worthy Colonel has indeed returned, Watson!" He almost shouted with an excitement unusual in him. "The paper is gray, antique-laid. The text written on the rough side in light-blue Hollidge's ink, with a well-used steel nib. The text is closely-written and small; the first word of each paragraph deeply indented! And all words ending in '–ing' have an unneeded 'e' for good luck! Moran to a certainty!"

"He must feel sure of himself to return so quickly to his old haunts!" I spoke with some trepidation, remembering our previous meeting with the murderous villain. "What has he to say, Holmes?"

"I quote—" Holmes began to recite the letter's contents in an even voice. " 'To Jervaise Markham.' Ha! Jervaise! A slimy character who generally likes to hide quietly in the morass that is Whitechapel!* I continue—'Late May. M S C. Visitors Special Euston. Assuming Mr Lucian Danvers. I have the particular instrument and necessary equipment. Going by 'Jenny Villiers'. 3.15pm. 200, yes, if you stay willing to my purpose.' It is signed with the single initial 'M'! A most interesting communication!"

"A most cryptic missive, surely?" I was as much in the dark as ever. "What does it tell us?"

"Almost everything we wish to know, Watson!" Holmes was elated; crossing to the window to stand looking out onto the passing scene before turning back to us. "We are given the time of the expected incident. Coupled with our revered Monarch's schedule we therefore now know the scene of the intended atrocity!"

"Where?" I could not help but cry the question loudly.

"Why, Manchester, of course!" Holmes smiled wryly at me and nodded towards the two ladies. "She is expected there for the opening of the Manchester Ship Canal—one of the scientific glories of our age! The 21st May I believe is the correct date!" *

"And the rest of the letter?" I was intrigued, as ever, by Holmes's method of extracting hard facts from the slightest of evidence.

"—tells us his method of travel! From Euston Railway Station; using a special train allocated for spectators travelling from London. He travels under the non-de-plume of Mr Danvers." Holmes paced the littered floor, catching the edge of the tattered carpet as he strode purposely around. "He already has his gun and ammunition ready. 'Jenny Villiers', as you no doubt know, is the steamer which crosses from Manchester to Belfast. 3.15pm will be it's time of departure. And the 200 will be in pounds, for Jervaises's pay! That, I believe, is almost all the letter can tell us!"

"Almost, Holmes?" I raised an eyebrow as I looked at my friend.

"Except for what it merely implies!" Holmes smiled sardonically. "Which is that the Colonel does not intend going to his destination until it is necessary. Meanwhile he will be taking up his abode here, in London. Where I can certainly find him!"

"Remarkable, Mr Holmes!" Miss Athenopolos gazed at the detective with an intense fire in her blue eyes. "We had read the letter before; but had not discovered what you have!"

"Merely elementary, my dear Lady!" Holmes was never one to brag about his capabilities at any time. "I often say; mostly to poor Inspector Lestrade, that anyone with enough resolve and aspiration can eventually attain something of the same aptitude! But tell me, how did this message come into your possession? And will not you or your friend be in some danger when its absence is discovered?"

Miss Xena laughed; though her expression gave me cause for concern. Some underlying mental disturbance or excitability seemed to show itself then to my medical side. I must here admit I was never quite happy about Miss Athenopolos throughout the whole course of ensuing events.

"He gave it to Gabrielle!" She continued to laugh, though without any strain of humour whatever: an almost terrifying performance! "She is what might be called 'in his favour' at the moment. Part of his group, I think you would call it!"

"I am his messenger, for the time being." The blonde lady continued in a calm voice, as if the situation was one which she felt perfectly capable of coping with. "I am to take it to somewhere rather colourfully named 'The Elephant and Castle',* where Jervaise will be waiting its arrival."

"We had better be on our way, I think." Miss Athenopolos looked at her friend, then rose to stand beside Holmes. She almost equalled him in height, I noticed for the first time.

"I am not quite clear on why Greece, and yourselves, are involved in this matter." Holmes put a finger on his chin and looked at Miss Athenopolos enquiringly. "May I ask why you have come to me?"

As he put these few words to the lady Holmes looked like an eagle soaring over its prey, with his eyes half-closed in thought as he glanced from one to the other of our curious visitors.

"Simply that we have accurate knowledge that the Colonel intends to finally reappear in our country." The tall woman looked at us with dark angry eyes. "Greece, as you know, is rather unstable at the moment. Colonel Moran is perhaps the least welcome visitor we need at this time. Hence our determination to see that he is caught and tried for his crimes!"

"Well, ladies!" Holmes suddenly burst into action, dashing across the room to retrieve the cloaks of our guests. "Time rushes on and events become somewhat clearer. You must certainly attend your appointment with the less than respectable Jervaise!"

"I am a little worried about that, Mr Holmes." Miss Potidais looked at us as she stood by her friend's side. "I have never met the man. And Colonel Moran simply told me the meeting-place; the 'Elephant and Castle.' He expected Mr Markham to make himself known to us, I presume."

"Oh, we can do better than that, Miss Potidais!" Holmes was actually grinning like a boy with a new stick and hoop in his pleasure at having work to do. "I can give you a very pretty description of the wholly obnoxious Markham. You will not be able to miss him, I assure you! And Watson here will be accompanying you both. Discreetly, of course! Watson, when the letter has been delivered please do your best to follow Jervaise after he leaves the Inn. He will certainly make his way back to his old haunt in Whitechapel!"

"And you, Holmes?"

"Oh, I shall be engaged for the next few hours!" He nodded to the ladies and placed the fingers of both hands together in a habitual way he had when considering the details of a case before him. "Jervaise Markham! His manners and habits! Well, Miss Athenopolos, he is highly regarded down Wapping* way as a fine exponent of the 'back alley lay.' That is to say, he finds a sailor fresh from a long voyage; makes friends with him; gets him drunk at one of thousands of drinking dens; eventually induces him into a dark lane or alley where he assaults the poor sailor with a blackjack, then makes off with his pay from the voyage! A nasty, vicious cove is Jervaise! Not a nice person by anyone's standards, I have to say!"

"Just the kind of character I like to meet on a rainy day!" Miss Athenopolos smiled; or rather, grimaced as she bared her teeth in an almost delighted expression.

"As to appearance," Holmes continued, raising his brow slightly at the lady's manner. "He is about five foot six in height, if you can call it that!"

The scowl, delivered from under a lowered brow that was aimed at him from Miss Potidais missed its mark as he went on with his description of the criminal classes to be met with along the River.

"A round head; almost spherical, in fact. The top lightly brushed with remnants of gray hair, cut short." He smiled at the peccadilloes of those who regularly treated the Sheriff Court as a second home. "He once had ambitions of being a prize-fighter. But found that his opponents were always better; or at least, more brutal! He is stocky; solidly built, without actually being fat. His legs appear shorter than usual because his arms are rather longer than the norm. His hands are large and powerful. His smile is set off by the lack of all the upper frontal molars; a frightening sight, if come upon unexpectedly in one of his cheery moods!"

"I think I remember putting a five-pound note on him to go six rounds, some years ago!" I had spoken before I quite knew what I was doing and stood embarrassed as all eyes focussed on me for a moment. "Never saw that note again!"

"Harumph! His voice is tenor," Holmes frowned as he recalled the details of his subject. "but long made rusty by the imbibement of gin of the worst sort. His accent is that of the authentic Whitechapel; rather guttural than otherwise. His replies are generally short. The exclamation 'Rrr' often doing service for more formal conversation!"

"I don't think we'll be doing much in the way of talking, Mr Holmes." Miss Potidais stood beside her friend as they prepared to leave. "I was given instructions to hand over the letter when Markham presented himself with the codeword. Then return to Moran."

At Holmes's raised eyebrow she quickly understood his meaning.

"A small hotel in the Tottenham Court Road." She passed a hand through her short unruly hair. "Only a meeting-place. We do not, as yet know where he actually lives."

"Do not be concerned!" Holmes was still darting around the room, picking up various sheets of paper and other small items as he went. "It may turn out to be quite a simple affair to track the Colonel to his lair!"

"Am I to go with the ladies, Holmes?" I thought it best to discover what my friend's plans were at the outset.

"In a separate cab, Watson, if you please." He raised a hand in the air, fingers playing restlessly. "Don't follow them inside the Inn. Just wait for the detestable Jervaise to leave and follow him. Considering the neighbourhood I would strongly recommend, if not your Service revolver, at least your fine swordstick! Who knows, you may rediscover your lost wealth from all those years ago!"

"And when I trace him to his lair, what then?"

"Then you return to Baker Street, Watson." He had dashed into his room and re-emerged with a heavy coat over his arm. "My investigations should themselves be completed by the middle of the evening. Ladies, where do you stay?"

"We have rooms at No 32 Malet Street, just behind the Museum." Miss Athenopolos followed the detective with her eyes as he ranged round the room, diving into draws and placing obscure items in his pockets. "You can find us there, or send a message."

"Yes, yes, I may have recourse to the telegraph before this business is over." He stopped beside the door to look at all three of us for a moment. "I must rush. There is someone I shall have to see about this really most entertaining business. Till this evening, goodbye!"

The door closed behind him and the great detective was gone.

"A man of action!" Miss Gabrielle smiled as she looked from her companion to me. "We seem to have brought some excitement into his daily routine!"

"Just what he most needed, ma'am." I smiled at the young lady. "He was falling into a rut otherwise. Now he's busy he'll be full of energy for days. May I take you down to the street. There should be no difficulty about a cab."

"Where exactly is this place, the 'Elephant and Castle.' " Miss Athenopolos stared at me with her penetrating glance. "Is it something more than a drinking den?"

"It's actually a District of London, madam." I gave the women a short history of London's geography. "It lies on the other side of the River, beyond Southwark. The place takes its name from the famous Inn at its centre. By London's standards it is actually quite a prosperous, up and coming area."

"So a cab will take us there without trouble?" Miss Potidais smiled again at me. "Is it very far?"

"Some considerable distance, as the crow flies, ma'am." I thought of finding a street-map to show them; but looking at our room's singular untidiness, thought better of it. "About half-an-hour by cab. Much the same by Underground, but a great deal noisier, smellier, and more crowded that way, I'm afraid. Even on a rainy day like today a cab will be more comfortable. Shall we go?"

In the street there were few passers-by, but the rain had lightened to a simple drizzle. Being the thoroughfare that it was though, the traffic was still quite busy and I saw a suitable carriage approaching immediately.

"Here, ladies, this growler* will be best for you." I waved the four-wheeler to a stand beside us and handed both women into the spacious interior.

"There is room here for you, Dr Watson!" Miss Potidais leaned over to look at me as her companion closed the door with its lowered window.

"I need to stay separate, as Holmes says, ma'am." I touched my hat and indicated the flow of traffic behind them. "Here's a Hansom that'll be just the ticket. Don't worry if you do not see me again till this evening. I shall keep a close eye on you till your meeting is over!"

With that I stood back and watched as the carriage pulled out into the road and soon vanished amid the grey rainy mist and other vehicles. My own Hansom set off smartly; the horse clip-clopping at a fair pace as we wended our way through the streets towards the rendezvous in South London. I smiled to myself as I recalled the sudden turn of events in the course of the afternoon.

As Holmes himself would have said, the game was afoot; and where it would lead us was as yet, thankfully, a mystery.

**End of Chapter 1**

—000—

**Notes— **

1. An otherwise unknown case.

2. See 'The Problem of Thor Bridge.'

3. 'Beyond Good and Evil.' 1886. Friedrich Nietzsche.

4. Dan Leno. Victorian Music Hall comedian. (1864-1904).

5. See 'The Greek Interpreter.'

6. See 'The Musgrave Ritual.'

7. See 'The Empty House' where Colonel Moran attempts to shoot the detective.

8. 'The Shooting of Dan McGrew' by Robert Service. Not published till 1907, so perhaps a clue to the later writing of these case-notes by Dr Watson?

9. Gladstone, a Liberal, resigned as Prime Minister in March 1894, to be immediately replaced by Lord Rosebery whose reign only lasted till June of 1895.

10. An infamous London District.

11. The Manchester Ship Canal was officially opened by Queen Victoria on 21st May 1894 in a grand ceremony attended by thousands.

12. The 'Elephant and Castle' was, and still is, a District of South London.

13. A District which had many wharves and boarding houses for seamen, bordering the Thames River.

14. Four-wheeled enclosed public-carriages, pulled by two horses as opposed to the Hansom cab's one, were universally known as growlers because of the curious noise the wheels made going over the street cobbles. They had room for four passengers, where the Hansom could only take two people at most.

—OOO—


	2. Chapter 2

**Explanatory Note.**

If readers are wondering what is happening in this story the basic plot is that Xena and Gabrielle have been sent, undercover, into the future (to the late 19th century) by Ares. Their mission is to stop Queen Victoria being assassinated. Ares himself is restricted by higher powers from making all but the most fleeting appearances on the scene.

Ares implies that if they fail the repercussions in the following (20th) century will be catastrophic. We can easily imagine that Victoria's murder might well have had an impact on later events, say around 1939-1945! It seems that Ares; faced with a monstrous evil beyond even his capacity to accept (Nazis winning WW2), is exerting his powers to try to stop this from taking place by dealing with the primary cause!

In this particular future-world (which may, or may not, have some relation to our own) Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson actually exist.

Now read on—

For *'s, see Notes at end.

Chapter 2. South London.

**Elephants and Pleasure Gardens.**

By the time my Hansom reached Westminster Bridge I had sufficiently pondered the facts in the case to be able to come to some kind of conclusion. First, the return of the abominable Colonel Moran—only a single step less dangerous than his unmourned employer, Professor Moriarty. Moran, as I had recently learned from Holmes, was apparently a cold brutal killer who would put his expertise at anyone's employ for the right price.

Next came the presence of the strange Greek women—obviously in the employ of the Greek Government. I had, of course, come across many examples of that modern desire in the female to break new frontiers in social life—the New Woman,*—of whom these Greek ladies were apparent examples. Irene Adler* sprang irresistibly to mind in this connection.

And, of course, the danger to the Queen. Though here, I admit again, I was less worried than perhaps I ought to have been. The Queen had been the recipient of several attempts on her life over the years; from all of which she had escaped unhurt.

As we already knew that Mycroft,* with his high Government connections, was involved I surmised that he already had some operation in hand to counter any activity which the Colonel might engage in.

Added to this were the as yet unknown actions which Holmes was even now setting in motion against his foe. All-in-all I had little worry about the general outcome of the plot. That Moran would succeed in his plan was simply out of the question. What worried me was who would be endangered in the attempt.

After crossing Westminster Bridge and moving along the Bridge Road at an alarmingly slow pace my Hansom finally came to a complete stop three-quarters of the way along St George's Road. This was most disturbing as it was so close to the traffic circle at the Elephant and Castle. But the road was full from side to side with the usual mixture of wagons, drays, carriages, Hansoms, and four-wheeled growlers. It was a main thoroughfare; in fact something of a bottle-neck, evinced by the fact that St. George's was one of the main routes leading to the large circular Elephant and Castle cross-roads, with its five diverging routes across South London. The only trouble being that, on busy days, it can become so congested that it often takes even a Hansom half-an-hour to travel half-a-mile in the vicinity, if that.

Today was one of those days.* I had been idly watching the milling foot travellers as they dived in and out amongst the traffic with brave or foolhardy disregard for danger. Men, boys, and even women stepped in front of wagons or the horse-drawn public omnibuses with never a glance at the oncoming juggernauts. Men exchanged chatter with each other as they darted between the carriages and horses as if they were strolling in Hyde Park. Even quite elderly women moved briskly across the road, dodging the dirt and traffic as if born to it.

But finally nemesis had caught up with my Hansom and we came to a standstill amongst the mass of wheeled vehicles. A large omnibus was directly ahead, while behind a private coach towered over our heads as I glanced back through the Hansom's small rear window. I could hear the resplendent driver of this massive four-horse vehicle exchanging pleasantries with my Driver. Words of such a nature, in fact, that I sincerely hoped the coach behind did not contain ladies.

The hatch in my Hansom's roof suddenly opened and, looking up, I had a glimpse of the heavily cloaked driver's head leaning over.

" 'ere Gov! This ain't no good. There's a Watney's dray* shed a couple o' barrels up ahead. An' everyone's got theirsel's mixed up something shocking! An' nary a sign of a rozzer*. We could be 'ere an hour!"

"Can't you find a side street?" I was much put out by this unforeseen event, and began to worry about arriving at the Inn dangerously late. "A detour! I really must reach the 'Elephant' as quickly as possible!"

"Well, sir," The driver paused to make a studied appraisal of his surroundings. "If I kin squeeze past this 'ere omnibus we could maybe make it over to Oswin Street. I could slip down Churchyard Row and come out onto the Elephant and Castle itself.* Then we can circle the crossing; if we're lucky, like! That'll get yer to the Inn!"

"Half a sovereign* if you can make it in ten minutes!"

"Yer on, Gov!"

The next few minutes were an education to me in the remarkable nimbleness of the average Hansom cab, when driven by someone who knew exactly what it could do. Its relatively narrow-axled wheel-base, coupled with the single horse and light weight meant it could dart through spaces between other vehicles impossible to the majority of other traffic. This was not accomplished without a certain amount of intimidation and hurt feelings from other drivers; and I must say I heard that day a surprising amount of colourful language replete with descriptive phrases culled from the far-flung corners of the Empire.

The driver's intimation that the side-streets would provide a clear route was amply justified by events. Oswin Street was virtually empty of traffic, and Churchyard Row was a desert compared to the mass of vehicles we had left behind. It was not till we drove past the portico of the Metropolitan Tabernacle, with its imposing Corinthian columns,* that I felt as if I would finally make my appointment with the Greek ladies. As a result of the jam some way back in St George's Road there was correspondingly less traffic as the Hansom took the wide curving circle of the crossroads which gave this district its name. And then the sigh of relief I heaved, as we pulled up in front of the old coaching-Inn itself, was only dulled by the necessity of parting with that half-sovereign on top of the usual fare. But needs must!

The Inn did not look much different from the surrounding red-brick buildings, except for the rows of long diamond-paned windows on its three stories, and the numbers of people coming and going from its wide door. Having been held up for so long I decided to ignore Holmes's instructions and go inside to catch a glimpse of the ladies, if they were there, and perhaps offer my assistance if needed.

The Inn kept the tradition of a large, well-appointed coffee-room on the ground floor, and it was into this spacious airy apartment that I entered first. There were quite a few customers and idlers sitting at tables or in secluded half-partitioned booths against the walls. It was in one of the latter that I saw the women sitting together with a coffee urn and cups already set before them. They were seemingly well-accustomed to this situation.

I took a seat at a small table within earshot and ostentatiously buried myself behind a copy of the 'Sporting Life'* which someone had happily left. The ladies must have seen me, but gave no sign of recognition.

Looking around I cast an eye over the clientele, searching for the infamous Markham; but to no avail. He certainly had not yet arrived, much to my relief. I took this opportunity to examine the foreign ladies again, in an attempt to surmise their likely role in the present affair.

The tall dark-haired woman was quite certainly the leader; she had a capable manner and directness of gaze which spoke of a strong will. Her companion at first seemed much more restrained, even subservient. But closer inspection showed a cool strength behind those curious grass-green eyes as strong and dangerous as her friend. Clearly ladies of the modern age, and not to be trifled with.

My luck was in because, just as a waiter deposited a pot of tea beside me, I saw the unmistakable figure of Markham enter the room and pause while he looked around. He was short and solidly built, as Holmes had described, with a flat-topped bowler on his head and somewhat round eyes. His face gave away his character at once, with sneering lips and a general expression of devilishness that boded no good for anyone who angered him. Like many sportsmen of his type he was wearing, instead of a tie, a large florid red-spotted handkerchief around his neck. With a quick glance to my left I saw both women regarding him with unconcern, as if he were a type of which they had much experience.

In another moment he had also identified his prey and casually sauntered over to their table. From where I sat; hidden behind the 'Sporting Life', I could hear all that ensued.

"The daisies is out in 'yde Park!" Was his rather curious opening ploy. Then I realised it must be the password.

"There are fresh oysters at Billingsgate* today!" Miss Potidais replied in her soft voice, thereby completing their mutual introductions to everyone's satisfaction.

Markham proceeded unceremoniously to sit at the ladies table opposite them both, and leaned his elbows on the board with every appearance of comfort.

"So, leddies, I 'opes the old Colonel's in good nick?"

Miss Athenopolos stared into the rogue's face with such intensity he became immediately nervous and sat back involuntarily; before sniggering once more as he remembered he was simply dealing with two women.

"There ain't no need ter look like that!" He grimaced with his lips in a curious way that both the ladies and I took a moment to realise was meant to be a smile. "Me and the old bloke's as tight as nails, we are! 'e gave yer something fer me, I'm thinkin'?"

Miss Potidais slipped the white envelope across the table and we all watched as Markham ripped it open and proceeded to read. His method was to form each word silently, as if with great physical effort. His lips working slowly over each phrase until he had finally mastered the contents. Then he looked over at the women with a mixed expression of satisfaction and query.

"That all sounds right enough!" He nodded, casually tipping his bowler onto the back of his head. "Very nice! But wot about the money? He says it's alright; but when do I see it? A man 'as expenses in this line o' business, yer know!"

"Colonel Moran says this is for immediate needs." Miss Potidais slipped a bundle of folded paper across the table, which I recognised as several five-pound notes. "You must come to the Hotel in Tottenham Court Road next Monday morning at 11 am."

"Gawd!" Markham was unimpressed. "I spends my days scootin' around the Smoke* like a dog wiv a tin tied on its tail! And wot for? For to be told to carry on as yer are, thanks very much! It won't do! I'm gettin' into all sorts o' bother over this 'ere lay, I'll let yer know! I'm beginnin' ter think it ain't goin' ter be worth the trouble!"

"Moran won't like that!" Miss Athenopolos sneered in his face, watching unconcerned as he grew red with anger at the slight on his character. "He thinks he's employing men for men's work!"

"I ain't goin' ter sit 'ere and be talked to like that by some foreign hussy!" Markham shifted in his seat, but made no move to rise. "Look, ladies! I ain't tryin' to pull a fast one on the old Colonel! He's got his plan. Meybe it'll work; meybe it won't! But I've got to thinkin'. And I don't like it, that's all!"

"Moran isn't going to let you walk away." Miss Potidais leaned towards the man and spoke tersely. "You know that! He'll come after you with his toy!* Then what?"

"Gawd!" Markham gazed around the room, as if searching for inspiration. "Look! This 'ere place is too tight fer me. Let's go into the yard at the back. Mebbe we can come to an understanding in private, eh?"

With these words he stood beside the table as both women also rose. They seemed unperturbed; though my heart was in my mouth. I had instantly recognised Markham's ploy of coercing his prey into a quiet spot where he could attack them unseen. The ladies were putting themselves in great danger from this ruthless villain by following him to the rear yard of the old Inn where he could easily have them in his power.

Even as I recognised this he was ushering them to a side door which led into the main corridor of the Inn. From there, I was sure, there would be a door leading into the quiet yard where he would have every opportunity to berate the ladies, in his usual manner, undisturbed.

I let them pass through the door; waited an instant, then threw my paper down and walked hurriedly to the door myself. By the time I had entered the corridor it was once more empty and I rushed down the picture-lined passageway. There was a heavy oak door at its end and it was the work of a moment for me to throw this open and dash through; perspiring at what I might witness in the yard.

What I actually discovered on entering the otherwise empty yard was exactly opposite to that I had imagined, and staggered my perceptions of ordinary life as I knew it. On the far side of the yard lay a pile of empty beer casks. On the ground, protruding from behind these, was a pair of booted twitching feet. I ran over, only to discover; not the women being chastised or harangued by the brute, but the luckless Markham himself lying on the cobbles on his back with Miss Athenopolos crouching beside him.

"I've just cut off the flow of blood to your brain, idiot!" Miss Athenopolos spoke with a coldness that was terrifying to hear. "If you don't tell me what I want to know, you'll be dead in less than a minute!"

What Markham felt I could not imagine; but he lay gasping like a fish out of water; making no move to rise; and slowly going blue in the face.

"So start talking!" She continued calmly, as if the scene was an ordinary part of her day. Even Miss Potidais, beside her, seemed to be taking the event in her stride. "What's going on?"

"Ladies!" I was astounded, and somewhat shocked by events. Whatever had been done to him, Markham was showing all the symptoms of strangulation. "What has happened?"

"Everything's fine, Dr Watson." Miss Potidais took my arm in a tight grip. "Xena has it all under control. Just let her carry on."

As she spoke Markham finally regained his power of speech; never usually well developed with him. But suddenly he appeared anxious to make up for lost time.

"Mo—Moran! 'e wants ter kill the - - - - Queen, that's all!" Even in his present state Markham's lack of vocabulary was fully made up for by the colour of what words he did have at his command. " - - - -hole! As if there were any chance o' that 'appening! Gawd, I'm dyin' 'ere!"

"Talk—or you will die!" Miss Athenopolos was completely unsympathetic.

"Aa—aah! 'e wants ter get 'er at Manchester! At the - - - - - canal! Can yer - - - - - believe that? 'e's mad o' course! 'elp me, fer Gawd's sake! My 'eads goin' ter blow up! I took 'is money. But I was goin' ter cross 'im. Do a runner! - - - - - wouldn't you? 'e's mad! I'm a'goin ter die 'ere!"

I was quite embarrassed by his flow of vulgarity; until I noticed neither lady was taking the slightest notice, even when he used a word I had only ever previously heard on a whaling ship in the North Atlantic crewed by the worst set of rogues I ever met.*

Miss Athenopolos leaned over Markham's quivering body and, before I could do anything to prevent her, struck twice at his throat with her fingers. Markham gave a couple of rasping gurgles and fought for breath like a man reaching the surface after nearly drowning. Miss Potidais looked at the still prostrate man with a less than comforting gleam in her eye. She certainly seemed to have a reserve of mental strength I had not previously allowed for in her character.

"That'll teach you to try and slap my face, eh!" She turned to me as Markham struggled to his feet; tottering like an old man. "Xena took him down before he knew what was happening. A pathetic show: not much of the bandit in him, after all!"

"What? What?" Once more I found myself speechless in the presence of these formidable women.

"An old trick I learned in Greece!" Miss Athenopolos spoke off-handedly as she rose to her feet also.

Neither seemed to feel there was any further threat from Markham. Indeed, he did appear to have other things on his mind. Just breathing, for one!

"I'd better take a look!" I was really worried that he may have sustained some serious injury The last thing Holmes or Mycroft would want, I thought, would be a dead body muddying the waters even further.

Markham peered a little anxiously at me; but once made aware of the nature of my ministrations, let me glance over his neck. On the side, just beneath the left ear, were two wide bluish bruises over and to one side of the carotid artery. His eyes were a trifle bloodshot, and there was a slight effusion of blood from the nostrils. All in all it looked exactly as if he had undergone a sustained strangulation. I found the whole thing mysterious and strangely frightening.

"You'll live, Markham!" I gave the man a hand to sit on one of the up-turned barrels. "Take a moment to breathe. Then you'll feel better."

"I think he may be of some use to us." Miss Athenopolos stood beside her companion as if they were merely out on a seaside promenade. "What'd you think?"

"It might work." Miss Potidais furrowed her brows in a most fetching way. Allied with her blonde hair I must say she gave more the impression of a true Lady than her very dangerous friend.

"Markham work on our side?" I was incredulous. "The thing won't hold water. Why he's a criminal of the worst sort! Probably sold his grandmother as crew on a tea-clipper long ago!"

" 'ere, mister! That ain't nice!" The rogue was finally coming to a recognition of his surroundings once more. "I'm well known down Lambeth way, I'll 'ave yer know!"

"Yes! For all the wrong reasons!" Miss Potidais was unforgiving.

"Miss! Jes' lemme get out o' this!" Markham was still rubbing his throat delicately, and casting fearful glances at the tall figure by the side of the fair-haired woman. "I knows when I'm beat! I don't want any more of Moran's crazy plans!"

"Why did you ask us to come here for our meeting?" Miss Athenopolos obviously was not yet done with the man. He represented a possible source of information concerning the Colonel's plans she apparently could not afford to pass up. "It's well away from Tottenham, or Whitechapel!"

"This 'ere's my old haunt. I was brought up just west of 'ere, in Lambeth." He stared glumly at us, shifting his feet uncomfortably. "My dad used to work at the old Vauxhall Gardens*, before they closed. And we always lived round 'ere!"

"And you got in with Moran when he made his plans known, eh?" Miss Potidais also interrogated the subdued man relentlessly. "What's your reason for taking his orders?"

"The Colonel's barking mad! It don't take no specialist to figure that out. I came in for the money at first. But now I want's out, sharpish!" Markham's clear fear for his neck had obviously given his usual surly nature a sharp knock, and his vocabulary was working at full stretch to fully convey his feelings in the matter. "He's bonkers! Killing the Queen! It can't be done! That's all my eye and Betty Martin! An' if it could we'd all swing fer sure. The Old Bill don't hang about when it comes to the nobs, yer know! And the officers at the Yard these days! Why, that Inspector Lestrade, he'd be feeling my collar afore the day was out! And Moran's too!"

"Perhaps it would be best if we all returned to Baker Street." Miss Athenopolos raised an eyebrow quizzically at her companion, then turned to me. "We can discuss the matter with Mr Holmes when he too returns!"

"Take Markham with us, you mean?" I was, after all, inclined to accept her new plan. On the face of it having a man of Markham's capability working ostensibly for the Colonel, while actually giving Holmes information, would be of enormous worth to us in foiling the Colonel's plans. "Yes. I think that would be wise. Come along, Markham! I'm sure you'll enjoy meeting Mr Holmes; just as much as he will enjoy meeting you!"

"Oh, Gawd!"

—OOO—

What with traversing London; being caught in a traffic-jam; meeting with the insalubrious ex-prizefighter; then our return to Baker Street in a somewhat packed growler, we were all ready for the cup of tea and sandwiches that the indomitable Mrs Hudson laid out for us. The presence of Markham not causing her to turn a hair, with her long experience of Holmes and the characters he associated with. Between one thing and another it was quite well on in the evening when we all sat round the warm fire, listening to the light rain pattering on the window-panes.

Markham sat on a wooden chair, slightly to one side; delicately balancing a tea-cup on his lap as if it were made of glass and might shatter at any moment. The etiquette of the dinner-table was not his usual forte. He had, however, managed to relax a little when it became clear the women meant him no further violence, as long as he behaved himself.

"So! Your father was a gardener?" Miss Potidais attempted to break the ice by asking Markham about his family.

"Wot, Miss?"

"Your father!" Miss Potidais actually smiled quite kindly at the embarrassed man. "You said he worked at—what was it?—Vauxhall Gardens?"

"Oh—ah!" He shook his head. "No, miss! You being foreign, like, wouldn't know! The Gardens were a sort o' a show place. Pleasure Gardens, they were called! All sorts o' exhibitions used 'ter go on there. Why! My pop used to tell 'ow he went up 'imself in old Charlie Green's balloon flights.* That were a go, that was! Rising up in the air mebbe three thousand feet; wiv nary an assurance yer weren't goin' ter come fallin' down agin, sharpish like!"

"An adventurous man!" Miss Gabrielle smiled more broadly. "And you? What did you do before, er—"

"When I were young, miss?" He seemed quite happy to talk; probably to take his mind off recent events. "I went fer the Queen's shillin'!* Twenty year ago, now! Ended up in the bloody Ashanti War*, I did!"

"Wounded?" I asked the question because of something in the way he shrugged his left shoulder at the recollection. Perhaps Holmes's methods were rubbing off on me!

"Yessir!" Markham grimaced at the memory. "Shot in the collar-bone by those damned natives! Gawd, they were some fighters, I kin tell yer! Never give up, no matter what! Battle of Amoaful it were! And a damned close thing too. If it weren't fer ol' General Wolseley* bein' in charge my bones'd be lying in the grass out there still! Though, mind yer, I nearly died in our own 'ospital!"

"Blood poisoning?" I spoke from my own experiences whilst in Afghanistan.* "Yes! Those native bullets can be grisly if you don't watch out!"

"Well sir, in a way." He shook his head. "It weren't the bullet. But when the surgeon went to picking at my shoulder wiv 'is instruments, like. Them as he was using on all the other poor wounded sojers at the same time! That's when I got the blood poisoning. Laid me up fer three months; came back to Blighty looking like a ghost. An' that were the end o' my military career!"

Before either I or the ladies could pursue the, admittedly interesting, history of our erstwhile foe there came the distant sound of the street-door being flung-to with a bang. Then came a rush of steps on the stairs and the room door burst open to reveal Holmes, in a high state of excitement.

—OOO—

"Ha! The illustrious Jervaise! How nice of you to visit." Holmes took off his top-hat and unceremoniously threw it into a corner, as was his usual custom. "Saves me the effort of searching you out for a chat!"

" 'ere, Mr 'olmes! I didn't mean no 'arm! I was jest in it fer the money! Now I wants out, sharpish!"

"We all want out sharpish at times, Markham!" Holmes could be humorous, in his own way. "But we have to jog on, nevertheless. For the good of the country, you know! Do you have the good of the country at heart, Jervaise!"

"In course, sir!" The poor man made an almost laughable sight; perched on his wooden chair with a tea-cup and saucer in his hand. "And my own good too, sir! That there Colonel Moran's cracked from side to side, sir. 'e's a goin' ter get in awful trouble over this 'ere plot, sir. I don't want anything ter do wiv it, straight!"

"A most commendable attitude!" Holmes completed his deshabille by tossing his frock-coat over the back of our disreputable sofa and then grabbing hungrily at the plate of sandwiches on the table. "So you're with us; and not against us! That is a point in our favour from the start!"

"What have you discovered, Holmes?" I was agog to know what his day's activities had resulted in. "The ladies and I have had some curious experiences ourselves!"

"Well, Watson, I took the Foreign Office in my route." He sat back on a chair and regarded his audience with a tight-lipped smile. "Just to call on Mycroft in his lair and find out some facts."

"Check on us, you mean!" Miss Athenopolos regarded the detective closely. "To see if we really were who we seemed?"

"Just so, ladies!" Holmes was totally un-embarrassed by the question. "Knowing your friends is just as important as knowing your enemies, after all! And I have to say you both passed with flying colours! Mycroft tells me he has received several messages by way of the new telegraph system that fully uphold your credentials."

"And then?" I was on tenterhooks to hear his adventures. "Where did you go after that?"

"To the World's End, Watson!" Holmes laughed in his high-pitched manner; then looked apologetically at his visitors. "That is to say, to the famous 'World's End' Tavern in Camden!* The seat, I can safely say, of all knowledge of the underworld in North London!"

"Ah!" I knew his penchant for surrounding himself with members of the very classes whom he was most at war with. "And some of your—er, contacts, were able to provide information? At a price, no doubt?"

"I have some acquaintances who can offer information of a sort, now and again." He waved an arm airily above his head. "Their price is sometimes merely not being suspected of some slight misdemeanour or other by the police officials. I do my best!"

"The result being?" I could see he had some nugget at his fingertips.

"That I now know where the inimitable Colonel resides!"

There was a general rustle as we all sat forward in our chairs. Trust Holmes to reach the heart of the matter in a single swoop!

"Holmes! This is amazing!" I was greatly cheered by this outcome. "Well! All we need do is inform the police, and let them take their prisoner when they wish!"

"Ah|! If it were only so easy!" Holmes shook his head. "I fear I have been somewhat forthright in giving my news! I mean only to say that I have a general idea—a very great suspicion, in fact—where the man is hiding! To discover whether it is correct or not will need some investigating—probably at night!"

"Well, sir, seeing as you 'ave everything in hand I'll just be moving along!" Markham rose cautiously to his feet, as if expecting opposition to his plan; and he was right.

"So soon!" Holmes's voice was sweet as honey as he quickly stood between our visitor and the door. "When you can still be of inestimable value to my plans! Really! I cannot allow you to part from us in that manner! Especially as there may well be substantial recompense involved!"

"Huh!" Markham did not seem much interested. "Like Moran's money! 'e offered me 200 pound three weeks ago. All I've seen is 20 pound this 'ere lady gave me this afternoon! An' me nearly gettin' thrown in Clink* more'n once over what I've 'ad ter do to earn it! No thanks!"

"Your life! Plus the reward for Moran's capture. £500, I believe!"

"A monkey!* Gawd!"

"If you cross Moran and he discovers it, as he will, then your life won't be worth a silver sixpence!" Holmes knew how to drive his point home. "Whereas, if you work with me I'll see to it that the reward comes to you without fail! Can I say fairer than that?"

For a moment Markham stared Holmes in the eye; then came to a decision and clapped his bowler firmly on his close-cropped head.

"Yer on, sir! It's a go! What do yer want me ter do?"

"At the moment merely take note of what goes on around you; and around Moran." Holmes accompanied the rogue to the door. "I'll meet you tomorrow evening at six o'clock outside the Lyceum Theatre. There may be some rough work involved!"

"Rough work and I's easy partners, sir!" Markham seemed to have regained much of his earlier robustness. "Depend on it; I'll be there!"

Holmes made sure that Mrs Hudson showed Markham out the main street-door; then returned to his expectant audience.

"Well, Holmes!" I was jubilant myself by this time; and the two ladies seemed pleased, if the smiles that were being exchanged between them was anything to go by. "We appear to be getting somewhere! Can you really pin-point Moran's whereabouts?"

"I believe so, Watson." He then turned to the ladies. "Please forgive my manners. I think if you both return to your rooms in Malet Street, I shall be able to give you good news in a day or two."

"Mr Holmes!" Miss Athenopolos rose to her quite extra-ordinary height and stood in front of my friend with a dangerous light in her eye. "Whatever happens, we are not going to sit out the action! We both have a personal interest in Moran's downfall; and we mean to be present when that happens! You can either go about your plans, and we about ours; or we can work together! We may be women, but we are far more dangerous than perhaps you imagine. We live in a different world from you. A foreign world; where women can sometimes be more dangerous and cruel than you would ever believe! So what will it be?"

For a considerable time Holmes simply looked from one to the other of these astonishing women. One tall, domineering and imperious; the other small, beautiful, and no less formidable than her companion. Then he made a decision.

"Well, ladies! Your case interests me greatly, I admit. When I spoke to Mycroft this afternoon he informed me there was some kind of mystery about the telegraph messages being sent from Greece on your behalf; but he couldn't make out what!" He waved a hand as if in surrender. "Apparently you are more than you seem! And your sex something that need not be taken into account, for once! We shall all meet outside the Lyceum Theatre, Strand, tomorrow evening then! Come prepared with dark clothes and perhaps some form of weapon!"

"Oh, we have weapons, Mr Holmes!" Miss Athenopolos smiled with bared teeth in that completely cold way which so disturbed the medical man in me. "We'll be there. Goodnight!"

—OOO—

"What do you make of our visitors, Watson?"

"I'm bemused by the ladies, Holmes." We were both in our sitting-room beside the fire an hour later. I had just finished telling him of the curious affair with Markham and the ladies at the Inn yard. "They seem on the surface perfectly respectable women. But underneath they behave almost like soldiers. I saw how Miss Athenopolos dealt with Markham; and I can tell you, she has a knowledge of self-defence that frightens me!"

"Hmm!" The great detective rubbed his chin, then reached for the Persian slipper containing his most pungent tobacco. "You know, Watson, this whole affair is most intriguing! Quite a three-pipe problem, I feel certain!*"

—OOO—

Notes to Chapter 2.

1. New Woman. A feminist outlook which emerged in the late 19th century as more women sought wider opportunities in life, society, and work.

2. Irene Adler. See 'A Scandal in Bohemia.'

3. Mycroft Holmes. Holmes's brother was as brilliant as Sherlock, if not more so, and held a high position in a secret Government organisation.

4. 'Today was one of those days.' It is not generally understood that in the 1890's London horse-drawn traffic was heavy and congested, with frequent traffic-jams. This can be seen in old photos and newsreels of the time. It is often said that today (2010) traffic moves in Central London at only an equal, if not slower, pace than traffic in 1890!

5. Watney's dray. Watney's Beer Company transported their wares across London in heavy wood barrels carried on open wagons pulled by huge carthorses, at a slow speed.

6. Rozzer. British slang name for a police-officer.

7. The Elephant and Castle is, confusingly, a District; a Road; a large traffic-roundabout; and a famous Inn.

8. Half a sovereign. Half-sovereign gold coins were equal to 10 shillings (or half of a Pound sterling).

9. Metropolitan Tabernacle. Famous Baptist church facing onto the Elephant and Castle Road. Remains open today.

10. The 'Sporting Life'. A daily newspaper dealing mainly with horse-racing events.

11. Billingsgate. Large fish market which was at the time situated beside the Thames, near the Tower of London and Tower Bridge.

12. The Smoke. Slang name for London.

13. Colonel Sebastian Moran's speciality was the use of an air-powered silent rifle, with enormous and deadly power. He was an expert shot. He served in the British Army; being stationed in India from 1877 till 1885. He was also the author of two books on big-game hunting in India. This was before he went to the bad and subsequently fell in with Professor Moriarty.

14. Arthur Conan Doyle, in reality, sailed as ship's doctor on a whaling ship for one voyage in his youth. The ship's name was 'Hope'.

15. Vauxhall Gardens. A Pleasure Garden complex where customers enjoyed firework displays, musical concerts, and balloon ascents. Closed in 1859. An early form of Disneyworld!

16. Charles Green (1785-1870). Early balloonist. Made many famous ascents and voyages in various balloons.

17. Taking the Queen's shilling. Enlisting as a soldier or in the navy.

18. Ashanti War. Actually the 3rd Ashanti War of 1873-74.

19. General (later Field-Marshall) Garnet Wolseley (1833-1913). In charge of British troops during the campaign in Ashanti.

20. Watson, at the start of his career, joined the Army and served as surgeon while deployed with his regiment in Afghanistan during the 2nd Anglo-Afghan War of 1878-80. He was wounded by an enemy bullet at the Battle of Maiwand, 1880.

21. 'World's End' Tavern, Camden. Still open today.

22. Clink. An early London prison situated in Southwark. Burned down in the Gordon Riots of 1780. Gave its name to the phrase 'in the clink'—meaning 'in jail'.

23. A monkey. British slang for £500.

24. Three-pipe problem. See 'The Red-Headed League'. He needs time to think about the case.

—OOO—

Chapter 3 will contain a night-foray across London; several more low-life characters; and the first glimpse of Colonel Moran himself!

—OOO—


	3. Chapter 3

—OOO—

Chapter 3.

Bright Lights in Belsize Park

The Lyceum Theatre* was sparkling with a myriad of gaslights under its canopy of tall columns; where prosperous carriages rolled up to disgorge their fur-clad occupants for the evening's entertainment, as we ourselves arrived in a rather commoner Hansom. As we stepped onto the pavement before the renowned theatre Holmes pointed to our left where I saw the two Greek ladies awaiting us.

"Always early for appointments, Watson!" He smiled thinly as we stepped across to join them. "A point to remember!"

Both women wore long dark cloaks and were hatless. They also appeared to be wearing heavy boots, which Miss Potidais seemed to have wrapped round with black linen cloths for some reason.

Before we were able to cross the crowded pavement another carriage decanted its passenger immediately in front of us. He was a large solidly built man* with a short red beard and a loud voice, tinged with the Irish accent. Instantly on his arrival an anxious individual in evening clothes darted from the theatre portico and button-holed the new-comer.

"Oh, Mr Stoker!" The man actually wrung his hands together in an excess of emotion. "It's Miss Terry! She will insist on changing the third act set!"

"Tell Miss Terry if she wishes to change the set for the third Act, then she must consult Mr Irving himself; that is not my responsibility!" The bearded man grunted with every appearance of disinterest. "Stop panicking, Mr Rogers! You know Miss Terry. Always nervous before the curtain goes up. I'll have a word with her."

"Thank you, sir." The smaller man stayed by the hefty Irishman's side as they both walked under the columned portico and through the wide theatre doors. "I'm sure a word from you'll set things right!"

The two passed on into the theatre leaving the way clear again for us to finally join the waiting ladies.

"Good evening, gentlemen!" Miss Athenopolos stood before us looking resplendent; as if the thought of the coming night's work was in some way exciting to her nature. "Ready for action?"

"Merely an investigation, my dear lady!" Holmes was clearly unhappy with the ladies presence on this expedition. "We hope to discover facts! Facts that will clarify our position. With luck there will be no action as such!"

"Easy, Xena!" Miss Potidais placed a restraining hand on the arm of her companion. "Are we going to use another four-wheeler to carry us to our destination?"

"Ah! I have that matter in hand!" Holmes smiled coldly, as he escorted the ladies through a gap in the throng to the edge of the pavement. "I have engaged one of the best cabmen in London for our especial services this evening!"

As he reached the side of the pavement a dark-green growler pulled up, as if by appointment, and its heavily-wrapped driver leaned down to catch Holmes's instructions.

"What about Markham? Is he coming with us?" Miss Athenopolos seemed to have calmed somewhat, though still looking at Holmes with an intense gaze.

"No." He gestured with a slight turn of his head and I noticed the short squat form of the prize-fighter lurking in the shadows of the building, well away from the nearest street-light. "I intend to hold a short discussion with the worthy man right now! If you join the ladies, Watson, I will only be a moment."

I clambered into the vehicle after the ladies, who ensconced themselves together on the opposite seat with their backs to the horses. As I made myself comfortable I glanced out the window and saw Holmes standing by Markham's side, in earnest conversation. Within a minute he turned back to the carriage, while the short figure of Markham disappeared behind the milling crowd still making their way into the theatre.

"The Tottenham Court Road first, I think, Blake!" Holmes called to the cabman as he entered the carriage. "Then I'll give further directions!"

Holmes seemed in high spirits as he doffed the short topper he habitually wore in the evenings and placed it by his side on the seat. I noticed Miss Potidais looking at it with something of a humorous glint in her eye. A form of headgear not common in her society, I found myself thinking.

"Well, well! Here we go!" He was almost jovial as he smiled at the ladies. "I may say we are in good hands with our driver tonight! Blake has a photographic memory! He knows every street and avenue in Greater London! An admirable achievement!"

"So where is our destination, Holmes?" I had been under the impression we would be searching the nearby streets for our supposed quarry.

"You seem to have some idea, already, of where Moran is hiding!" Miss Athenopolos eyed the detective intently. "Are you working on assumption; or facts?"

"Facts, madam! Facts and information!" He was obviously pleased with the way circumstances were playing out at the moment. "After a little discussion with Markham. What a closely observant man that is, by the way! Then some logical deduction on my own part helped matters. The fact, Miss Potidais, that you commonly meet the Colonel in a hotel in Tottenham Court Road is significant!"

"In what way?" She was clearly uncertain of Holmes's methods of deduction in these cases. "What can that have to do with anything?"

"Allied to what Markham has been able to tell me it gave me the first real pointer necessary for our purposes." Holmes raised his hands, palms together, and leant his chin on their fingertips. "Then my expedition to the 'World's End' public house in Camden gave me the rest. I was lucky enough to find a certain gentlemen partaking of a light supper there. He is—how can I put it?—the best cracksman* in the North of London; and keeps a small villa on the proceeds. In a rather salubrious area, I may say. He was able to supply some quite revealing information about new arrivals in the district that quite intrigued me!"

"And where would that be?" I found this question necessary for he showed every intention of falling into a silent reverie again, as was his custom.

"Oh! Oh, merely Belsize Park!*"

"Come, Holmes!" I was frankly astonished. "That simply cannot be correct. Why, Belsize Park is—is—well, it's the haunt of well-to-do persons. Very well-to-do persons! Persons of quality!"

"Of some means, certainly, my dear friend!" Holmes snorted in contempt. "But not necessarily of any quality whatever! I am reasonably sure Moran is there; in one of those quiet villas!"

A small trap-door opened suddenly above the heads of the women; making Miss Athenopolos grab at her waist quickly as if reaching for a weapon, before relaxing slowly. The muffled voice of our driver came through the opening in the cool night air.

"Just on Tot'nham Road now, guv!"

"Alright, Blake." Holmes leaned forward slightly as he spoke to the man through the aperture. "When we reach Camden let us know!"

The trap shut again and he settled back in his seat as Miss Potidais smiled across at us.

"You seem to have everything well in hand, Mr Holmes?" She furrowed her brow as the question was put, clearly wishing to understand the intricacies of the evening's movements. "Casting your shadow over far away parts of the city?"

"And what do you know of this Belsize Park?" Miss Athenopolos's voice held a certain hissing undertone I did not quite like the sound of. If she were a man I should have given my opinion that she was only just holding herself in check from serious physical action.

"The District to which we are at the moment en route." Holmes gazed calmly at his questioner. "For your information, ladies, Belsize Park is laid out as large opulent villas, mostly in their own private gardens with attached mews or rear lanes where stables and workshops are available. A delightful hiding-place, if you have the money behind you that Moran obviously has!"

"Yeah! I can see him hiding among the fat cats!" Miss Athenopolos nodded. "They wouldn't take any notice; if he kept to himself!"

"There will be the necessity for Watson and I to do some preliminary reconnaissance on our arrival." Holmes spoke dubiously, as if expecting opposition; and it came.

"We ain't sitting here, like fish in a pan, while you have all the fun!" Miss Athenopolos leaned forward to stare into Holmes's face with her jaw set firmly. "We're part of the whole plan, too. If you take care of the front of the house Gabrielle and I can slip through the rear garden and see what's happening at the back."

For a moment Holmes stared back, into the blue eyes of the woman; then smiled grimly. "I see they make ladies of firmer metal in Greece than elsewhere! So be it! We shall arrange the details when we arrive!"

—OOO—

"Haverstock Hill, sir!" Blake's gruff voice came again through the opened roof trapdoor.

We had been travelling, in more or less silence, for just over half an hour at a fairly rapid pace. For the last few minutes the urban soot-blackened houses and shops of the passing streets had been subtly changing to lesser buildings and now fell away behind us, to be replaced by a tree-lined avenue of villas all set well back from the road.

"Right, Blake!" Holmes sat up; tense as a coiled spring. "Turn left onto Steele's Road, when you reach it. We want Eudicot Lane*. But don't turn down it: go on to Eudicot Mews!"

"The mews; yessir!" Blake seemed alert to the situation as well. "It'll be about thirty yards further along."

The growler came to a virtual standstill as Blake negotiated the corner of Steele's Road, then we picked up speed again. Suddenly Holmes pointed through the window on our right hand and we all peered out as a street corner passed by. Eudicot Lane; where, perhaps, our suspect was even now in residence!

"Watson! If you accompany the ladies along the mews, I shall reconnoitre the front of the villa." Holmes stared intently at the two women. "It should be easy to effect an entrance to the rear garden. It is the fourth villa in the row. There should be a garden door at the side of an un-used stable-building."

In another minute Blake brought the carriage to a halt in the shadows at the side of the silent street. Holmes opened the door and jumped out to hold a quiet conversation with the cabman, then he glanced through the opened door again.

"Blake will stay here, ready for anything that may transpire!" He nodded to the ladies as he turned away. "Give me about five minutes to reach the front of the villa; you should have gained entry to the rear garden by then. Good luck!"

With that he disappeared into the darkness. I climbed out and stood by as the ladies descended. They took off their cloaks and, for the first time, I saw they were actually dressed in what I took to be men's attire: but on closer examination recognised as leather or deerskin trousers. I found myself thinking these ladies certainly meant business. And I wondered if they were in reality as dangerous as they might appear? I somehow thought they were!

Miss Athenopolos had some kind of large metal ring hanging on her belt at the waist and, astonishingly, a sword in a back-sheath; and Miss Potidais had a pair of daggers tied to the outside of her boots. I found myself glancing along the deserted lane in case there was a policeman nearby!

"Ladies! Er,—is it really necessary to be armed in such a fierce manner?" I pulled the small battery lantern, with which I had provided myself before-hand, from my coat pocket and switched the low light on. "You resemble a couple of pirate women ready to board ship!"

"Perhaps we are!" Miss Athenopolos's eyes, reflecting in the feeble illumination, seemed sparkling with subdued excitement. "If we meet anyone from the house, we'll be ready!"

Over the short course of our acquaintance I had been studying Miss Xena Athenopolos with growing concern, from a medical point of view. She was, I had come to the conclusion, a perfect subject for the new psychoanalytic methods presently coming to the fore on the continent. Dr Freud of Vienna*, in particular, would have been almost overjoyed at the prospect of studying her as a patient. I, however, did not bring the subject up!

The light from my small lantern was feeble at best, but enough to show the brick walls on either side of the narrow lane down which we were walking. It was overhung by the spreading branches of large trees in the various gardens of the opulent villas on either hand, thus giving the impression of journeying along a kind of tunnel. After several yards we came to a door that acted as entrance to the first of the gardens. Passing this silently we continued on till, about one hundred yards down the alley Xena, as I now found myself thinking of the woman, pointed to another door on our right-hand. It was painted green and stood immediately by the side of a two-storied brick building with a large wooden door; obviously the stables Holmes had warned us of.

The fact that I had brought my Service revolver with me, and had it safely ensconced in my coat pocket, made me somewhat less anxious than I might otherwise have been. Though the ladies, and their curious armament, troubled me a little. I sincerely hoped we would not need to engage in hand-to-hand combat in the way for which the women were prepared.

"Miss Athenopolos—"

"Xena!"

"Xena. If you follow me closely, with, er—"

"Call me Gabrielle." The lady in question looked, somewhat quizzically, at me as we stood beside the closed garden door. "What should we call you?"

"Er, well!" I was flummoxed at this turn in the conversation. It not being the usual thing for young ladies to ask to call me by my first name. "Some call me John. Though others call me James*!"

The ladies looked across at each other for an instant, before Miss Potidais smiled at me.

"We'll just call you Dr. Watson. Easier that way!"

I tested the door, which only displayed a round handle on our side; but it was locked.

"It seems to—" As I spoke Xena suddenly jumped at the door; caught the top edge with one hand and swung over out of sight, before I fully understood her intention.

"She does that a lot!" Gabrielle merely returned my astonished gaze with a light smile.

From the other side came the slight rattle of a chain falling to the earth, then the door opened to reveal Xena awaiting us.

"That was—" I could hardly think of any appropriate answer, but Xena interrupted me once more.

"—simple! Autolycus has his uses, after all! Come on!" She appeared wholly at ease. "Keep low, there's lots'a bushes—thank the Gods!"

I now began to realise that I was in the presence of two women who were indeed far more than they appeared; and decided to be more cautious than ever in my dealings with them. We crept, bent low, through a patch of bushes that finally gave onto a wide lawn which swept up to the walls of a three-storied villa. It was overhung by several beech trees, that hid the upper windows a little from our view. On the ground floor there was a bright radiance emanating from an uncurtained french-window; in fact, the brilliant illumination of the newly available electric power supply*. If Colonel Moran was indeed there he was doing himself proud!

"That is some bright light they've got there!" Xena growled in a deep voice. "Any brighter and they could be seen from Thessaly!"

"We can't cross the lawn." Gabrielle mused by my side as we crouched beside the bushes. "They'd see us for certain."

"I don't think we need to!" I had taken the lie of the land as we spoke; my early Army experiences in Afghanistan coming to my assistance. My coat had capacious pockets; something like those affected by poachers, and from the inner pocket I drew the small pair of binoculars which I often carried with me. My adventures with Holmes having given me some familiarity with what was needed on such occasions.

Adjusting them and focussing on the window I saw at once that we had, as the Americans say, hit pay-dirt. The interior of the room was wholly visible in the intense light that suffused it. There was a central table round which three men were sitting, apparently drinking wine. One was obviously an ordinary thug; being bulky of stature and dressed in shabby clothes. He had a strong physique and, from what I could glimpse, an evil face. Opposite him was a thin man dressed in dark good-quality clothes, with a sharp face and long dark hair. Between them, and standing so that he dominated the other two, was a gentleman of military bearing and remarkable height. He had a moustache; a strong square face; and thick hair swept back. He was every inch a military officer; and I recognised him instantly from the only other time I had set eyes on the cold-blooded assassin. There stood Colonel Moran himself, in all his inhuman savagery. For, under the veneer of respectability, he was indeed a cruel immoral madman; altogether as dangerous as his late master, Professor Moriarty!

"What're yah doin'?" Xena whispered in my ear. "What's that thing!"

I glanced at the lady; but she did seem to be truly interested in the binoculars. I assumed she had not come in contact much with such objects in whatever region of her homeland she came from.

"You, er, look through the lenses at this end." I handed them over and showed her how to raise them to her eyes. "Point the opposite lenses at the house-window; and turn this knob. It'll focus the view."

For someone who had little experience with such things she seemed to understand the use very quickly. After what seemed only a few seconds she stared intently towards the distant window; viewing those inside with interest. Then she passed the binoculars to Gabrielle who raised them to her eyes and, after some help from Xena, gave an excited gasp as the view came into focus for her.

"Gods! These are great! Hades, you can see the colour of their eyes, and the buttons on their coats!" Gabrielle twisted round, as she crouched, to sweep the whole side of the house, before returning her attention to those inside the room. "There's Moran right enough! We've got him!"

"But do we want the slimy rat!" Xena snorted beside us, raising a hand to ease the sword-hilt visible over her shoulder. "Maybe we could just rush 'em right now. I could slice him open in a second!"

"You'd be dead before you were halfway across the lawn!" My words brought both women's attention round to me in an instant. "They'll all have guns. Revolvers! You'd never make it!"

"Revolvers!" Xena spoke with a querying tone, which I took to be a question.

Reaching into the other outside pocket of my overcoat: how glad I was I had chosen this article of clothing by the way, I produced my own Service revolver.

"They'll almost certainly each have one like this." I looked from Xena to Gabrielle. "They could lay down a field of fire that would be impenetrable! Best wait for whatever Holmes is going to do. Even if that's only to retreat till another time!"

"Retreat! I think not!" Xena's tone was emphatic. She glanced from side to side as Gabrielle returned my binoculars. "We'll wait for Holmes though, and see what he's up to!"

Peering into the distant room again I focussed on the standing man. He would be apparent in any gathering he attended; dominating his surroundings. Colonel Moran had, I believe, written books about his big-game adventures in India; and I could feel, even at this distance, the steely determination of his personality.

"Surely, if we know his hide-out, we just need to inform the authorities?" Gabrielle whispered; aiming the question at both of us, I thought. "After all, a—what do you call them—a police raid would catch him right now?"

"But not the person who is at the centre of the plot, Miss Potidais!" I shook my head. "I know how these criminals work. There is someone—a master-mind, you might say—who holds all the threads of the plot in his fingers. He can easily employ some other lieutenant to carry out his orders. Capturing Moran would save the Queen in the short-term; but in the longer run some-one else would take his place!"

"So we need to trail Moran till we find this—this Satrap*, who holds the purse-strings and directs the plot?" Xena nodded, as if she well understood the situation.

"Precisely, ladies!" I resumed my survey of the lighted room, where some activity was now visible. "With Moriarty dead, as we know; well, it could be anyone! That's what Holmes wants to discover: before Inspector Lestrade collars Moran himself."

"You think the chances of this policeman—Lestrade—discovering the leader's identity by interrogating the Colonel are slim?" Gabrielle's tone echoed her own belief that this was so.

"Gimme an hour with Moran!" Xena spoke through gritted teeth, with an intensity that frightened me. "I'll make him talk!"

I was still studying our foe through the binoculars as she spoke, when my attention was taken by a sudden movement on the part of all three men in the room. It was as if they had heard someone in the house. The large muscular man rose from his chair with surprising speed and Moran himself as quickly disappeared from sight. Something was up!

"Ladies! I think they may have discovered Holmes!" Before I could issue any further orders Xena had jumped to her feet, sword in hand, and uttered the most terrifying scream I have ever heard from a human throat!

"Follow me! Take 'em all down! Quick!"

The next few seconds went past in a blur. I remember crossing the short grass of the lawn at a speed I no longer thought I was capable of. From in front of me came the crash of glass as Xena unceremoniously jumped straight through the closed french-window. By my side I caught a glimpse of Gabrielle with something sharp glinting in her hand; then we were in the brightly lit, now empty, room.

Darting through the inner door we found ourselves in a short corridor, where Xena gestured to my left.

"You take this room, Doctor!" She shouted her commands with the air of an Army Commander. "Gabrielle and I'll take this next room down. If yah meet anyone; kill 'em!"

I threw open the door indicated and jumped inside as I heard the clatter of the women continuing on down the corridor. The room was, thankfully, empty; though it had an L-shape which made me cross to investigate the unseen corner. I also noticed an already open connecting-door with the next room where the two women-warriors had just made their entrance. They used the elementary method of kicking the door down, judging by the crash and shouting of orders I could still hear from Xena.

A swift glance assured me my room was certainly empty and I turned towards the ladies room, just as Holmes himself darted swiftly in from the corridor to join me.

"Ha, Watson!" He appeared almost to be enjoying the situation as he grasped my arm. "Careful with that revolver; they can go off un-announced, you know! The ladies are in the next room? This is becoming dangerous! Moran heard my feeble attempt to pick the front-door lock. Have you seen him?"

"No. He vanished as soon as he heard you!" I indicated the door next to us. "Better join the ladies; they're armed too; so be careful!"

We turned to this door, which allowed access between the two rooms, and so were both witness to the next events together. Everything was still happening in a speeded-up manner that swift excitement seems to have on the human mind; especially in times of physical danger. A strange flickering light seemed to emanate, unexpectedly, from the room containing the women; then I heard the deep voice of a man talking in a foreign tongue. There was only a sentence or two in all. For an instant a form—tall, clad in dark leather and perhaps bearded, —crossed in front of the half-open door. Then there was a much brighter flash and silence.

Holmes was the first to dash through the door into the room containing the ladies. On following close at his heels I found the women un-injured, alone, and already heading for the corridor again. As Gabrielle disappeared ahead of her Xena cast a glance back at us.

"Out! Right now!" She snapped in a low deep voice. "There's a bomb! We may only have seconds!"

Again, the ensuing moments seemed to happen in a curious mixture of speed that seemed far greater than normal time; and an ultra-slowness that allowed certain scenes to be etched on the memory with curious sharpness.

One instant we were all crowded in the narrow corridor: then we ran through the abandoned electrically-lit room and out the ruined french-window: the cool night air hit my face like a splash of freezing water as we crossed the grassy lawn: and then the bushes at the lower end of the garden surrounded us. Just as we all arrived in a panting group together, crouching low in this welcome cover, there was an almighty explosion and a dazzling light that existed for the merest fraction of a second; but still managed to blind me for the next minute.

From the direction of the house came a roaring rumble that told of rooms destroyed; and very likely of floors collapsing. Before we could make any move to protect ourselves we were enveloped in a choking cloud of dust that was so thick it felt like a solid object; making breathing almost impossible. I felt a hand on my wrist, then I was being dragged through the bushes once more. A minute later I found myself at the gate leading onto the mews lane, with Gabrielle holding my hand; beside us Xena had Holmes by his forearm too.

"The fun's over for the evening!" Xena was grinning widely. "Better make tracks for our carriage and get to Hades outta here! What d'ya say, Holmes?"

"For once I agree!" Holmes had lost his topper, but showed no signs of wanting to stay and search for it. "This way! Better run. There's no saying what other devilish joke Moran may wish to play on us!"

We all ran down that narrow mews like champion sprinters, and Holmes was not above requesting assistance as we went.

"Blake! Blake! Start the carriage!" He began shouting some thirty yards from the exit onto Eudicot Lane, where our cabman awaited us. "Come on, man! Start the carriage!"

We all fetched up beside the already rolling vehicle with just enough breath left to allow us to scramble unceremoniously inside, to land in a heap in the interior.

"Head North towards Hampstead Heath, Blake!" Holmes cried through the open roof-trap as we sorted ourselves out. "Don't stop till you get there; and don't spare the horses!"

—OOO—

The next morning found Holmes and I slumped in easy chairs beside the coal fire in Baker Street; both looking as pale and wan as the feeble flames in the morning light. I, for one, was exhausted by the night's adventures. And my feelings were not enhanced by Holmes pointing out; when I sat morosely at the breakfast table contemplating a boiled egg with loathing, that there was undoubtedly a bullet-hole visible in my tweed overcoat where I had discarded it on the nearby sofa!

"Someone obviously thought you worth taking a pot-shot at!" He smiled grimly as he poured a cup of tea and passed it across to me. "But not Moran! He would not have missed!"

"Holmes! This is outrageous!" I was appalled. "Are we in London; or the Wild West of Mr Buffalo Bill?"*

"Life is certainly becoming more uncertain as each day passes!" Holmes admitted. "We must find other, safer, methods of catching our revered opponent, I admit!"

"Another thing, Holmes!" I was reflecting on the events just past. "I saw a man! I heard a man in that room with those women last night. I'm sure of it!"

"When we entered the room there were only the ladies present." Holmes raised his eyes to the ceiling in an attitude of deep concentration. "The door to the corridor was opposite to the ladies, beside whom he must undoubtedly have been standing! And there was one window with closed frame, and clasps shut on the inside. Neither were there any wardrobes or cupboards large enough for a grown man!"

"So where did he go?" I was perplexed by the curious circumstance. It seemed so out of the ordinary. "And why did the ladies not remark on the matter? Did they see the man? Was there a man?"

"This business begins to remind me of the unfortunate James Phillimore and his umbrella." Holmes studied me with a thoughtful expression. "You recall the case, Watson?"*

I had some idea of pursuing this topic at length with Holmes; if only to relieve my feelings on the matter. But there came a loud knocking on the street-door below, followed by the sound of Mrs Hudson opening it to the visitor. Hard on this the echo of heavy boots could be heard quickly ascending the stairs, unmindful of the protests of the worthy woman.

The next instant our door burst open without ceremony, disclosing a medium-sized, slightly grey-haired individual in a long coat and round bowler. He had an air of authority, and a look of extreme displeasure on his thin features. Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard was among us!

"This won't do, Mr Holmes!" The policeman started without preamble, crossing to the centre of the room and giving us both a sorrowful glance. "Gunshots in the night! Houses being blowed up in the middle of London. In the middle of Belsize Park of all places. Lord love us, what are you up to, Mr Holmes!"

"Ah, Lestrade!" Holmes was not put out in the slightest by the somewhat testy nature of our colleague's greeting. "Draw up a chair. Have a boiled egg! Perhaps a cup of Mrs Hudson's excellent tea would be calming to the nerves?"

"I won't have any time for tea today!" The man bristled with anger beside us. "A house thrown to the ground in ruins; like as it were blown up in the bombardment of Atlanta!* And you seen—yes, seen in person in a racing cab; and recognised straight by one of my constable's in Haverstock Hill! Well! What? That's all I asks! What?"

"I don't think I ever fully thanked you for the assistance you provided some weeks ago, Lestrade, on my return." Holmes contemplated the figure of Scotland Yard's finest as he condescended to sit at the table. "And the unfortunate arrival of Colonel Moran on the scene!"

"What's Moran got to do with anything?" Lestrade looked from one to the other of us suspiciously.

"If I merely remark that the Home Office; secretive Government Departments; two ladies of mysterious Grecian origins; and the Queen are involved, perhaps that will give you some idea of what I know!" Holmes repeated this list with an air of supreme composure.

Without a word Lestrade rose and crossed to the door, round which he peered apprehensively; as if imagining Mrs Hudson herself would be behind it, taking notes!

"That's a subject nobody's supposed to know anything whatever of." He spoke more quietly and calmly when he returned to the table, after firmly closing the door. "Except them in high Government circles; and us at the Yard! O'course, knowing your brother's involved in these affairs makes the whole thing clearer. So what do you know, Mr Holmes?"

"I know everything, Lestrade!" Holmes nibbled a piece of toast in what I can only call a triumphant manner. "Colonel Moran's little game to try and assassinate the Queen! Quite something I would believe of his unhinged reasoning. Tell me, why did your officers let the man escape? I should have thought Newgate* was strong enough to hold him! But clearly not!"

"Harumph!" The worthy Inspector obviously felt we were dealing with a delicate topic. "That's as may be, Mr Holmes! Anyways, he's out—and that's all there is to it!"

Before Holmes could resume his cat and mouse play with the now sweating Inspector the sound of knocking on the street-door came up to us once again. And soon we heard the voices of women as they ascended the stairs.

"Ah!" Holmes turned to the police officer with interest. "Have you met the Greek Ladies, Lestrade? For they will be with us momentarily!"

The embarrassed man jumped up as if impelled by a spring and we all three were standing together when Miss Potidais and Miss Athenopolos entered the room. They were both dressed in long skirts once more, but still appeared to favour leather boots.

I shall mostly hereafter refer to the ladies as Xena and Gabrielle, on their own authority, for purposes of clarity and speed. As it was, Lestrade looked with some interest at the women as Xena walked to meet us; giving the policeman a thoughtful examination in the process.

"Good morning, gentlemen!" She smiled broadly, as if the events of the previous night had been invigorating instead of terrifying. "Have you recovered? I see you have found a friend!"

"Allow me to make the introductions." Holmes was all suavity as he indicated Lestrade with an outstretched hand. "Inspector Lestrade—Miss Xena Athenopolos and Miss Gabrielle Potidais. Ladies of Greece. Here on a mission!"

"Yes. Well I know it!" He nonetheless stepped across and shook them both by the hand. "I've had authorisation from the Home Office about you two. Seems you're well connected where you come from!"

"Damn right there!" Xena nodded briefly, then regarded the breakfast table with interest. "Are those eggs? I'm hungry as Tartarus! Gimme!"

Without a second thought of our presence she sat down and attacked the bill of fare without mercy.

"Don't mind Xena." Gabrielle sat more genteelly by her side and poured a cup of tea. "She has no table manners! Ignore her!"

"Hey!"

"I was about to ask Mr Holmes here for some kind of explanation of certain events that transpired last night." Lestrade looked at the women with some doubt. "Am I to suppose you were also involved in, er, what happened?"

"Too right!" Xena looked up briefly, then returned to munching a large slice of bread. "We were there. Saw all the action. Heard the bang!"

"Heard the bang!" Lestrade registered disapproval in every pore. "Madam, most of North London heard the bang! That's why I'm here this morning!"

"It was just a little disagreement between friends!" Gabrielle seemed as nonchalant as her darker, more dangerous, companion. "Some people can be a little—effusive! No harm done!"

"No harm done!" Lestrade caught himself repeating the conversation again and glared angrily at the women; both kicking into the vittles before them like starving convicts. He heaved a sigh, as if contemplating an inner vision of the ladies as just such convicts, then returned to the attack. "My superiors are coming down on me like a ton of bricks, I'll have you all know! Who's responsible, they're all asking! And can I tell them? No I can't; without the Official Secrets Act* falls on my head as well! I've been given strict orders by your brother Mycroft, and the Prime Minister himself! These is dangerous times we're livin' in!"

"And we're about the only people who can save you!" Xena gazed up at the irate man, and offered him a smile.

Perhaps this was a mistake for, as I had found myself, her smiles tended to make the recipients rather more scared than they had been before. Lestrade certainly paled and took a step backward.

"That's all very well, Mr Holmes!" He almost implored the tall figure standing by his side. "But what am I supposed to think, or do, when you are involved in—in—such foolhardy exploits?"

"Foolhardy, possibly, Lestrade." Holmes nodded in his turn. "But these experiences give me some idea of the state of mind of Colonel Moran. Give me some notion of how very far he means to go in order to achieve his purpose."

"And how far is that, Mr Holmes?" The Scotland Yard man looked into the detective's face with some attentiveness. "What kind of a man is it that blows up his hideout behind him, merely at a suspicion of being spied on?"

"Someone, Lestrade, who will not scruple to go all the way in order to commit his contemptible crimes!" Holmes gestured sharply with his hand. "He means to see this through to the bitter end. Have no doubt of that!"

"Well, I must report back at the Yard!" Lestrade settled his bowler more firmly on his head and bowed, somewhat perfunctorily, to the ladies. "Whatever else you see fit to engage in, please let me know beforehand! If only so I can make up a good excuse for myself! Goodbye!"

Immediately he had clumped downstairs as noisily as he had ascended, and the street-door had banged behind his unhappy form, Gabrielle turned to Holmes with a questioning gaze.

"Mr Holmes! That was some evening we had, wasn't it?" She glanced at her companion, still immersed in the bill of fare. "Xena and I weren't expecting a reception quite so determined as that! How on earth did he destroy that house?"

"Black powder, Gabrielle!" Xena spoke before Holmes could reply. "That's how he did it!"

"Oh, I see!" Gabrielle looked somewhat subdued, as if recalling other memories.

"More likely Dynamite, I surmise!" Holmes remarked softly. "Let us hope his supplies are running low!"

"Where next, Mr Holmes?" Xena finally sat back from her meal and stared at the tall man with complete composure. "What about Markham?"

"Ah, Markham!" Holmes smiled as he walked over to stare out the window at the passing throng in the busy street below. "I sent him to investigate the curious by-ways of the East India Docks!* Markham is just the right person to carry out some discreet spying for us. Much more easily than even I could hope to do! There are the most colourful people and artefacts to be found within the boundaries of those warehouses and ships! All the mysteries of the Near and Far East! From Egypt, to China and Japan itself!"

"Japa!" Gabrielle's voice held a cold harshness that jarred with her gentle appearance, but she said nothing else.

"It is there I believe the money-man; the Master himself, is to be found." Holmes looked almost dreamy as he contemplated this aspect of the affair.

"Yes, Moran is being financed by someone, somewhere." Xena nodded in agreement. "I'm certain he isn't working on his own account!"

"And I have strong suspicions that our man is Alfred Gatch, East India merchant." Holmes turned to Xena with a contemplative expression. "He, I believe, holds the key!"

"Lead me to him." Xena's voice was cold and level. "He'll talk to me, eventually!"

—OOO—

Notes: —

1. Lyceum Theatre. Wellington St., Strand. Still open today.

2. Bram Stoker (1847-1912) — author of 'Dracula' — was at this time House Manager of the Lyceum Theatre for the great actor/owner Sir Henry Irving.

Ellen Terry (1847-1928). Renowned Shakespearean actress.

Sir Henry Irving (1838-1905). Famous Shakespearean actor.

3. Cracksman. Burglar specialising in safe-breaking.

4. Belsize Park. A salubrious district of private villas and residences.

5. Eudicot Lane & Mews are fictional. All other streets and districts are real.

6. Freud published his major works slightly later than 1894, the date of this story, — so perhaps this is a further clue that Watson wrote these notes some years after the events he describes?

7. There is actually some confusion in Conan Doyle's 'Holmes' stories about Watson's first name.

8. In 1894 the use of electricity for house lighting was still restricted to only the richer upper classes.

9. Satrap. A Provincial Governor of Ancient Greece, and surrounding areas.

10. William Frederick "Buffalo Bill" Cody (1846–1917), first brought his famous 'Wild West' show to Britain in 1887.

11. Phillimore. See 'The Problem of Thor Bridge'. The story opens with a description of a tin dispatch-box, kept in a bank's vaults in London, where Watson stores notes dealing with many unpublished cases. Among which is the tale of 'Mr. James Phillimore, who, stepping back into his own house to get his umbrella, was never more seen in this world".

12. Bombardment of Atlanta took place in 1864, during the American Civil War (1861-1865).

13. Newgate Prison (1188-1902). Now the site of the Central Criminal Court, otherwise known as the 'Old Bailey'.

14. Official Secrets Act. First made an Act of Parliament in 1889 in Britain.

15. The East India Docks were a small group of docks in the Blackwall area of East London, just north of the Isle of Dogs. Mostly filled in and built on today.

—OOO—

Chapter 4 will record the curious adventures of Markham in the East of London; Inspector Lestrade's continuing difficulties; and Xena and Gabrielle's meeting with a famous Victorian personage.

—OOO—


	4. Chapter 4  A Dinner at the Diogenes Club

Chapter 4.

**A Dinner at the Diogenes Club**

I could see Xena's forthright manner, and her frequent offers to make various people talk at will, were beginning to annoy Holmes. He was not affronted by her frank proposals but rather by the fact that, along with me, he thought she was telling the truth! Neither he nor I wished to delve too closely into the lady's antecedents; mostly from fear of what might be disclosed.

"Perhaps I ought to state the simple fact that Mr Gatch is by way of being a middle-man; not the actual head of operations, as it were." Holmes turned from the window where he had been observing the flow of traffic in the busy street. "He is himself led by some higher authority. Whom, we are still to identify! That is why I have had the invaluable Markham take a walk to the Docks. The fountain of all information, as it were. Watson! Have you the 'Times' to hand?"

"By all means." I went to the desk by the far wall where the papers lay ready. It was a settled regulation of our life in Baker Street that the morning papers, all of them, were always delivered promptly each day. I may say here that the evening papers also came into our drawing-room with equal speed each afternoon. I often complained about the astronomical expense; but Holmes would always counter with the excuse that they were as much part of his expert equipment as a pair of handcuffs to a policeman!

He grabbed the broadsheet and tore the pages open in his search for what he wanted. Towards the back of the paper he stopped and scrutinised the type minutely.

"Ha! We are in luck!" He swung round to offer a smile of triumph to all and sundry. "Here, in the Arrivals column, we are told that the P & O liner 'Atalanta' has docked in the East India Basin at 7.45pm yesterday evening. It sailed, as you no doubt will recollect, from Bombay!"

"India?" Gabrielle spoke somewhat irrelevantly, with a raised eyebrow.

"The jewel of the Empire, as I have heard it described; by whom I cannot recall!" Holmes waved the question aside in favour of more important issues. "No matter! The point is that the Docks will be a hive of industry for the next few days. It is truly amazing how much cargo these new liners can carry; not to mention the supplies needed to provision the ship's passengers! Markham will have no trouble slipping in amongst the other longshoremen."*

"Why should he have any trouble doing that?" Xena looked across at the detective curiously. "What's to stop him going to the Dock and talking to the men; or even boarding a ship if he wanted?"

"The wall, madam!" Holmes considered Xena with a thoughtful expression. "The East India Docks are wholly surrounded by a thirty-foot high stone wall that encompasses the entire perimeter of the area covered by the Docks. And that is considerable! Security! To stop pilfering from the ships' valuable cargoes! The average London dock-worker is a fine specimen; but not above pocketing what he can, when he can! I have heard tales of grand pianos disappearing without trace!"

"And so, the wall!" Xena laughed.

"Precisely!" Holmes laughed himself at the picture he had painted.

"There is also the matter of the various sites within the Docks, madam." I put my own penny's worth of knowledge at the ladies' service. "There is the Basin; where ships report on arrival or departure. Then the ship moves to the Export or the Import Dock. I have heard it reported that the Docks can handle scores of ships at the same time!"

"So you can imagine the pandemonium and hustle that goes on when a ship either arrives or departs!" Holmes nodded. "Markham will be invisible amongst all those others going about their lawful purposes. Even amongst those few who may be intent on their lawless purposes, come to that!"

As we spoke there came up from the ground floor the rat-a-tat of another visitor at the street-door. Seconds later we listened to the slow clump of boots on the stairs, followed by a hesitant knock on our door. Holmes himself swept it wide and ushered our visitor in.

Markham was dressed in his usual greyish cloth coat and mud-stained trousers, with heavy boots. He sported the same flat-topped bowler and red-spotted handkerchief round his neck as before; but now appeared as tired and worn as both Holmes and I. He flicked his eyes around the assembled group and coughed with embarrassment.

"Come in, Markham!" Holmes led him over to the table. "A cup of tea? Sit here, and take some of this really quite good bread and butter! Perhaps you wish to partake of an egg? Everyone else has so far this morning!"

Our visitor drew his chair up to the table and studied the laden cloth with enthusiasm. He accepted the offered cup and took a mighty swig, before wiping his lips appreciatively and nodding at Holmes.

"That's good, sir!" He looked around at his audience. "I heard you all got up ter some high jinks last night?"

"Oh, not another critic please, Markham!" Holmes groaned dramatically. "We have been thoroughly chastised by Inspector Lestrade, and now you! What of the Docks? What life there, eh?"

"Well, sir, I found him! That Mr Gatch you spoke of yesterday evening!" The ex-prizefighter favoured us with his awe-inspiring smile; not an event to be lightly forgotten. "One moment I were standing at the clock-tower entrance to the Docks; the next a big man in a tight suit 'ad me by the collar and were dragging me along to the Import Dock like 'is life depended on getting me there!"

"Ha! Longshoremen are worth their weight in gold these days!" Holmes was clearly amused. "Continue!"

" 'e were intent on handin' me over ter some cove in a stovepipe hat on a wharf where one o' those giant ships were tied up!" Markham smirked as he recalled the event. "But 'e left me to it, like, so I just casually veered my wind and sailed off towards the Spice Warehouse along the way. Well, it didn't take me ten minutes to hunt out some friends I knew! Then we found a little quiet office that no-one had any intention o' visitin' that night and settled down to a nice chat!"

"Really, the life beneath the surface!" Holmes chuckled, and gestured airily with his hand. "The beating heart of London that no-one knows anything of! I delight in it!"

"So, the end of it all was that George—that's my mate in the Dock—he said this 'ere Gatch were well-known an' disliked universal by all who knew 'im!" Markham shook his head, and absent-mindedly took another slice of toast. "Apparently he's some kinda high-up clerk, dealin' wiv the expensive and valuable cargoes, like. Jewellery, an' gold, an' bullion in general! Always surrounded by armed guards, an' transporting secret boxes to the Cutler Street* warehouses for secure storage an' suchlike."

"Hmm. A man of parts!" Holmes mused on this information while Markham re-filled his tea-cup. "Which warehouse in Cutler Street has the Bullion Room, Markham?"

"No.3, sir, second on the left as you approach from the Commercial Road!" The man's answer was instantaneous, showing a lifelong understanding of these important facts that would have made any police-officer shudder. "No chance o' breakin' in there. Armed guards all day an' night, yer see! Can't be done!"

"Yes. A much more delicate approach would be needed." Holmes agreed, clasping the fingers of both hands together and gently scratching his chin with his thumbs. "But, of course, Gatch has no intention of doing any such thing. That would simply be foolhardy. No! He is merely a pawn; while someone on a higher level directs his, and Colonel Moran's, actions. That is who we must find."

"From what my pal George says, sir, I don't think Mr Gatch 'as any intention o' filchin' anything!" Markham took a spoonful of egg and drank from his tea-cup enthusiastically. "George knows everything that 'appens at the East India Dock, sir! And nothing's going on ter do with the Bullion Room at Cutler Street, I can lay my name to that, sir!"

"Hmm." Holmes mused, as he gazed out the window onto the bustle of life which was Baker Street. "What do you say to keeping an eye, a close eye, on our friend Gatch, Markham?"

"I kin do that, sir."

"How would that serve us, Mr Holmes?" Xena rose from her chair and crossed to join the detective at the window, where she nodded at the passing throng outside. "Look at all those people going about their lives out there! What's to say Gatch has anything useful to give us? This mastermind you seem to think is behind everything could just be a chimera, you know! I understand your past acquaintance with the man Moriarty; but there cannot be many of his type, even in London!"

"Moriarty's doom was sealed some two years ago, madam!" Holmes turned to Xena with a hard expression on his face. "London, however, is a vast place. And the Empire is huge! There are many persons, from all corners of the world, who can easily vie to take over where the illustrious Professor left off!"

"I don't want the hunt for a ghost to lead us away from capturing or killing Moran, Mr Holmes!" She stared into his face with stately determination. "Moran remains our primary target. Remember the Queen!"

"I shall take all due care for the Queen's safety, madam!" Holmes was obviously angry at the supposed slur on his methods. "Nothing will deflect me from that course, be assured of that!"

"Well, Gabrielle and I have some work to do on our own account." Xena turned from Holmes and walked back to her companion, who was standing waiting beside the still seated and eating Markham. "Nothing you need worry about, by the way; just clearing some points up. We'll be at our rooms in Malet Street, if you need us again today, or this evening."

With a nod in my direction Xena opened the door and let Gabrielle step out onto the landing ahead of her. With a last contemplative glance at the silhouette of the detective she turned away and closed the door.

"A strange woman, Watson!" Holmes was again lost in thought as he once more observed the life of the street. "Her companion, too, is a curious specimen! How I wish I could fathom what their game was! There is something more than Colonel Moran behind their appearance here, my friend, I am sure of it! A most interesting problem."

" Sir, I 'ad dealings wiv that Moriarty once!" Markham's intrusion caught us both off-guard; we had become so wrapped in our thoughts we had forgotten the man's existence.

"Great Heavens!" Holmes laughed aloud. "Sometimes I think the worthy Professor had everyone in the capital on strings; like a group of marionettes! So what was your own involvement? I am all ears!"

"Someone I knew put me onto a good lay once, four years ago now." Markham wiped his face with a dirty handkerchief as he sat back from his meal. "He took me one night to a cellar in Houndsditch* where there was about another dozen coves already waitin'. Then this 'ere Professor came in. Gawd! He were a scary one, 'e was! Tall, and thin, and an enormous head. And the scariest eyes I ever saw, Mr Holmes! He spoke to us for about ten minutes; and his head sorta went sideways and back, like a lizards*, sir! Well, arter he left I jumped outta that cellar like it were on fire, sir! Didn't I 'alf tell my pal wot he could do wiv his friends! That Moriarty bloke were cracked right through, sir! Yer could see that right off! That's wot made me so chary of Colonel Moran when he picked on me to do 'is dirty work! I'd 'ad experience of 'is predecessor, like!"

"Anyone who met Moriarty regretted it in the end, I believe!" Holmes nodded. "And the same, of course, is true for the appalling Colonel Moran! The sooner we grab him by the heels the better, eh, Markham?"

"I'm wiv you there, sir!" Markham rose from the table and looked from one to the other of us. "I'm feelin' a little tired, arter being on the go all night, sir."

"Oh, go home, by all means!" Holmes smiled as he escorted the man to the door. "Remember, keep a close eye on Gatch. Find out where he lives. Try to get a line on his friends. But above all stay away from Moran now! I don't think he will actively come after you; but keep a low profile for the time being! I'll meet you again tomorrow morning at the East India Dock clock-tower at midday. Got that?"

"Yessir, midday it is!" Markham touched the brim of his bowler to us and noisily descended the stairs.

"A good man, Watson." Holmes turned to the desk, piled high with files and loose documents. "I suppose I had better make some attempt at clarifying the facts in the matter; or perhaps a quarter of an hour with the Stradivarius* would not be entirely without merit!"

—OOO—

Holmes picked up his loved violin, but had only been scraping the strings; I will not call it actually playing, for about five minutes when the telephone apparatus* in the corner set up its jangling ring. I went over, with some relief, to pick up the receiver.

"Hallo, Baker Street here!" I had, through experience, found this to be the best way to reply to the infernal contraption.

"Is that you, Doctor?" Came the distant voice, echoing faintly in the ether.

"I am a Doctor, yes." I was never good at recognising voices over the electric wires. "What is your problem?"

"My problem?" The voice seemed to gain new energy at the question. "My problem is London, Doctor! And at present your friend's way of conducting his business in said capital! This is Lestrade! I'm speaking from the Yard!"

"Do you wish to speak to Holmes, Lestrade?" I glanced at Holmes; who had begun making curious hand-signals which I could not interpret. "Have you any new information?"

"Only if you call being put on my final warning by the Commissioner new information." The Inspector seemed, even through the weakening nature of the telephone, to be under some tension. "But as he generally does that regular as clock-work a couple o' times a month anyway, I suppose you might say everything's hunky-dory!"

"So what was your message, Lestrade?" I found myself smiling at the tone of the poor man, sitting in his eyrie at the side of the Thames.

"That bomb that went off in Belsize Park, Doctor!" An ominous tone could be felt in the far-away voice, even through the weak signal. "We've determined the dynamite was stolen from an importer's warehouse in Cutler Street, about ten days ago! He didn't report it immediate because of some mix-up in the receipts and such-like! The point is, Dr Watson, there were forty sticks of the damned stuff stolen. Our scientists here at the Yard estimate it took about 5 sticks to blow-up the Belsize mansion. So there are still some thirty-five sticks un-accounted for, as it were! Better let Mr Holmes know, I suppose! I must go now. Goodbye!"

"Goodbye, Lestrade!" I replaced the receiver and turned to Holmes in something of a dilemma. The news, however, did not seem to surprise or worry him overmuch.

"It is all we can expect, Watson!" He hunched his shoulders as he replaced the violin in its case. "That Moran would see himself well-supplied with munitions at the start is all to be expected. I do not discount the use of the explosive again; but I think he will be careful, more circumspect, in future. After all, even Moran cannot go about blowing-up London as he wishes!"

"I certainly hope not, Holmes!" I did not voice my own doubt of this reading of our situation. To me Moran was capable of anything.

—OOO—

Holmes settled himself once more at the desk to peruse his copious notebooks on the infamous Colonel, and I sat in a chair with the discarded copy of the morning 'Times'; as some form of relaxation. But this was not to last long. Some twenty minutes had not gone by when I heard Mrs Hudson answering a knock at the street-door. Within a minute there came the steady tread of someone climbing the stairs. I turned to Holmes, but found him already cognizant of the new arrival.

"Note the steady march, Watson!" He inclined his head as he listened to the approaching visitor. "Each step of the same force and frequency. Ex-military, obviously. Heavy-soled boots; the left, perhaps, a little worn on the inner curve of the heel! Weight, about 150 pounds; height, about 5' 8''. Left-handed, carrying a light bundle; and is wearing gloves. Is used to much outdoor activity, and has a slight cold as a result."

There came a knock at the door and I opened it with a good deal of interest. Imagine my surprise when a tall military-looking man entered, exhibiting all the details that Holmes had attributed to him. He even sniffed apologetically as he advanced across the carpet, and indicated the leather folder which he had clutched in his left hand.

"Sir!" The man swivelled his eyes from one to the other of us. "I'm looking for Mr Sherlock Holmes?"

"Myself!" Holmes rose and crossed to the messenger. "You have something for me?"

"From the Foreign Office." The courier extracted a thin buff-coloured envelope from his folder, and a pen. "If you'll just sign 'ere, sir? Thank you!"

Another moment saw him retreating the way he had come, while Holmes walked to the window and tore open the missive.

"Well, Watson, the Heavens can fall, and stars change their courses after all!" Holmes gazed at me with a tight-lipped smile. "Mycroft has invited us all to dinner at the Diogenes!"*

"What! The ladies as well? I thought —"

"You thought the Diogenes barred women, as Parliament bars the female vote!*" My friend gestured with a raised hand. "I confess, so did I! It appears we are about to see history in the making! Indeed, be part of it ourselves!"

He handed the single sheet to me, with a signal that I should read its contents also.

Diogenes Club

Pall Mall. May, 1894.

Dear Sherlock,

I have been doing some research into our little problem and have made a singular advance. I have managed to gain the services of a gentleman of some renown (and unquestioned integrity) who can be of great assistance. If you would be so obliging as to come for dinner at the Club this evening, bringing the Greek Ladies also, I should be exceedingly gratified. My acquaintance is very much looking forward to meeting Dr Watson, I may say.

Mycroft.

"I believe ladies have gained the right to vote in New Zealand*, Holmes!" I dredged up a snippet of news that had lodged in the back of my mind. "So perhaps, as you say, there is hope for the Diogenes Club yet. I wonder when they will start taking female members?"

"Watson, you go too far!" Holmes laughed loudly. "For pity's sake, I beg you not to bring the topic up in front of Mycroft. He may well have a fit! And Mycroft's mysterious gentleman expresses delight in meeting the illustrious Dr Watson! Your fame apparently precedes you, my friend!"

"Possibly an aficionado of the 'Strand'* magazine." I gently chided him in my turn. "I told you there were such people to be found in London!"

"Ha!"

—OOO—

That evening at eight o'clock saw both Holmes and I, and the ladies, standing outside the high Georgian entrance to the 'Diogenes' Club on Pall Mall. A telegram had informed the ladies of the invitation, and a reply from them had confirmed their appearance.

There was no activity before the wide oak doors; in fact there was no activity at all. For all the passing spectator might have known the building could have been abandoned. Only a single light shone inside the hall, as Holmes ushered us all through, coming from a small office with a glass window on the left hand side. He waved a hand towards this cubicle, from which a rather shabby individual presently emerged to guide us further into the dark and somewhat seedy interior of the building.

"This is some dusty hole!" Xena seemed un-impressed with the dull and dreary surroundings. "Could do with a clean!"

"Talkin' only permitted in the Strangers Room, madam!" Our cicerone glanced round with an offended expression; caught sight of Xena's face, turned pale and darted forward at an increased pace.

"Who guards the guards?" Xena cast an amused look at Holmes, who only responded with a raised eyebrow.

We all traipsed up an old oak staircase that looked as if it pre-dated the Georgians, as did the whole house; then we were escorted along a dim corridor to finally fetch up beside an open door from which some much-needed light emerged. Our silent guide pointed the way in and left us with alacrity; his first experience with Xena apparently having un-nerved him somewhat.

The room was long and wide featuring, in the centre, a large dining-table set with two multi-armed silver candelabra round which several servants were putting the finishing touches to a rather fine meal; most of the dishes of which were placed on a sideboard against one wall. As we all entered these men passed us on their way out, closing the door behind them, leaving us alone with our host.

Mycroft was not dressed in the evening clothes usual on such an occasion, but some kind of loose tweed suit of a dark tone.* Both Holmes and I had gone to some trouble to conform to the expected, and were suffering in long black evening-dress and white shirt-fronts and bow-ties.

"Good evening!" Our host welcomed us with no sign of embarrassment bowing, as much as his remarkable girth allowed, to the ladies. "Please take your seats at the table. I am afraid we shall have to serve ourselves; for privacy's sake, you know; but I highly recommend the turtle soup!"

"What of your guest, Mycroft?" Holmes glanced round the room, taking in the leather chairs by a distant fireplace with its cheerful blaze.

"I have no doubt he will arrive in due course. The traffic in London these days, Sherlock, is really appalling!" Mycroft shook his head with a frown. "To cross from one side of a road to the other, anywhere in the City*, is really to take one's life in one's hands, I assure you!"

"Did you say turtle soup?" Gabrielle had seated herself beside Xena, opposite to Holmes and myself; but she was casting an obviously eager look to the sideboard where various silver dishes simmered on top of small oil heaters. "I adore turtle soup!"

"Let me serve, please!" Mycroft smiled at his guest and moved, surprisingly gracefully, to the dishes and began arranging a group of soup bowls. "There is plenty to go round, so I intend to give fair allowance to all!"

"Yay!" Gabrielle grinned at everyone in glee. "No salt; easy on the pepper; fill the bowl till it splashes: and I might want a second helping!"

"Gabrielle!"

"Well, I'm starved, Xena!" The blonde girl merely raised her nose in the air at her companion's reply. "I'm hungry, and I mean to eat Mr Holmes out of house and home before I'm finished!"

"Ha! The perfect guest!" Mycroft laughed pleasantly as he brought the dishes over to the table and placed them before the ladies. "I may say I operate on what is technically known, I believe, as an Expense Account; so feel free to indulge as you will, I shall be fully recompensed for the cost!"

"My kinda Inn." Gabrielle smiled as she bent over the soup. "Lots of vittles, and no-one loses out on the bill. Yippee!"

"Oh Gods!" Xena leaned forward over the table and addressed me with a groan. "Its gonna be one of those nights!"

"It is a pity to start without our special guest; but needs must, and I am starving, too!" Mycroft smiled broadly at Holmes's pained expression as he settled himself at the table. Then there was silence for a considerable time as the excellent food cast its magic spell over us all.

I do not intend to make a documentary of the evening meal, but I shall allow myself to mention the poached herring with orange sauce and the venison steaks marinaded in port with hazelnut pate. It was as the latter was placed before us by our bustling host that the door opened again to disclose our late arrival. Mycroft immediately stepped across to shake the man's hand and escort him to a seat beside Holmes.

"Good evening! Good evening!" Mycroft took the visitor's hat and smiled broadly. "No, no! Do not bother with excuses! The traffic, my dear sir, is an abomination, I know! But you are here now. Let me introduce you!"

The man in question was of great interest. He was slim; just above average height; had a neatly trimmed beard and moustache, and well-groomed dark hair. His eyes were piercing, with a straight open gaze; and he sported a deep tan. He appeared to be about forty years of age. The smile he favoured us with was relaxed but reserved at the same time: altogether, I found myself warming to the gentleman from the start. This was helped by the fact that I felt sure I had seen him somewhere before; but could not remember where.

"It is not often I have the pleasure of so many Lions*, if I may use the term, at my poor assembly's!" Mycroft finished introducing us all to the gentleman before he turned to enlighten us about the man's identity. "Although, of course, our friend here is accustomed to meeting his lions in rather different circumstances; and of their being of a rather more—er,—volatile nature! Ha!Ha! Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce Mr. Henry Rider Haggard!"*

—OOO—

I was amazed on hearing the name. I had, in my capacity as a minor author, been to some literary lunches and Dinners over the past few years; and it was at one of these I had been present along with our guest. He had come to fame only some six or seven years previously, with the publication of three of the greatest adventure tales so far offered to the British public. Who had not heard of the fabled 'King Solomon's Mines'; or the ravishing but dangerous 'She'; or of the magnificent big-game hunter, 'Allan Quatermain'! He put my own feeble efforts at reporting the cases of my friend to shame. A great author; and a splendid representative of the British Empire!

The next few minutes were taken up with Mycroft settling the guest and placing the treasures of the sideboard before him. It was not till the cheese and wine were safely distributed at the banquet's close that Mycroft would brook anything in the way of serious conversation.

"I think we can safely dispense with the usual tradition of letting the Ladies leave the table*, eh! Hardly logical in the circumstances, I think!" Mycroft smiled broadly at everyone. "Most of you already know of my illustrious guest's fame! You in particular, Dr Watson, will have no trouble in seeing the reasons why I chose Mr Haggard to lend us his assistance!"

"Mr Haggard has had experience in Africa of a nature not given to most." I nodded, as I thought of the accomplishments of the man sitting beside Holmes. "You have, I believe, been a farmer and a big-game hunter there?"

"Among other things, yes!" His voice was tenor, lighter than might have been expected though with a mellifluous tone. "I came to love the natives; particularly the Zulu nation! A sadly misunderstood tribe."

"They managed to massacre an entire British army!"* I felt the need to mention the single fact that still came to the forefront of the British Public's mind when questioned about the famous natives of South Africa. "A remarkable military triumph from a native tribe in this modern age!"

"Just so, Doctor." Haggard smiled across at me with no sign of anger. "But that was some fifteen years or so ago. Times have changed; South Africa has evolved, as have the tribal nations. Though I must say it is no longer from the natives that the Empire faces its greatest threat nowadays!"

"The question of the Boers* can be left to another occasion, I think." Mycroft took control of the conversation with a graceful, and finely-honed, political suavity. "We have other problems on our plates at the moment. The reason why I decided to involve Mr Haggard is because of his political connections, as well as his undoubted skills as a hunter."

"What do you do, Mr Haggard?" Xena leant over the table, to fix the man with a steely gaze. "Our host seems to think highly of you!"

"Well, if you will pardon me blowing my own trumpet, I was for some time the virtual head of the Transvaal nation!" He sprung this gem of information with an off-hand inconsequence, as if it were a thing of no particular interest to anyone. "I dealt in politics, in what is now South Africa, with some success for a time in the late 1870's! And I have had some experience in big-game hunting, I must admit! I've also managed to write the odd novel now and again; to mixed critical reception, I have to say!"

"Mr Haggard was a member of Sir Theophilus Shepstone's staff* in the Transvaal." Mycroft smiled all round as he cracked a nut with a silver implement. "His knowledge of the area is un-equalled. He was also, I may say, working at the request of the British government through my own efforts on many occasions."

"Ah, I see!" Holmes nodded understandingly. "Mr Haggard was, or possibly still is, a member of your somewhat secretive organisation, Mycroft!"

"He was able to offer assistance at certain junctures, yes!" Mycroft acknowledged. "It is because I know his qualities so well; allied to his capability in the area of big-game hunting, that I felt it possible he could be just the right man to help us find the elusive Colonel!"

"Set a hunter to find a hunter, you mean?" Gabrielle nodded in her turn. "Makes sense. I presume you believe Mr Haggard thinks like the Colonel; so might be able to guess his actions?"

"Just so!" Mycroft smiled at us, though with a serious tone in his voice. "Mr Haggard has political experience; is a patriot; knows big-game hunting like the back of his hand; and is an excellent shot! The matter seems perfectly constructed for his especial skills."

"Well, if he can save us from any more debacles like yesterday's he will certainly be helpful!" Xena growled as she played with a fork. "We don't want to place ourselves in that kind of trap again! Moran was waiting; ready for just the sort of idiotic assault we made. Looks like the Colonel isn't put out by the fact we are on his trail. That has the air of someone with a plan so perfect he isn't worried about any setback occurring. That ain't good!"

"Or someone who is so egomaniacal they think they're invincible!" Gabrielle shook her head. "I go for that reading. He's full of himself. Probably been so influenced by his time with Moriarty he's lost all sense of reality!"

"There is a great deal in that, madam!" Mycroft agreed, as he glanced at everyone round the table. "It is just for that very reason that I feel bringing Mr Haggard into the group is necessary. We know we only have till the Queen attends the Manchester Ship Canal opening at the end of May. Some two weeks away now!"

"Can't she postpone the ceremony?" Xena looked curiously at the men. "After all, we've known for some time of the danger! Surely she can't think it safe to go on with it now?"

"Miss Athenopolos, I see you are not acquainted with our Queen!" Mr Haggard looked over at Xena unflinchingly. "She is of a resolute character. When it comes to Acts of State, particularly in public, she will not be swayed by some trifling threat to her own well-being. She will go to Manchester, come what may!"

"The difficulty; one might almost call it the problem, is that she has been the target of several previous assaults. None of which were successful, obviously!" Mycroft shrugged his shoulders at the situation. "Victoria feels it her duty to show herself in public these days: somewhat of an about-face from her previous policy, I may say!* But she will not be cowed or quelled by any perceived threat. She will be in Manchester on May 21st, depend upon it!"

"So it devolves on us alone to make sure Moran's insane plan doesn't work!" Xena frowned at the difficulty. "Would make it easier if Victoria changed her schedule; but I understand her determination. Like an Amazon Queen!"

"Just like an Amazon Queen, Xena!" Gabrielle spoke quietly, but with a firm note, that gave surprising power to her words. Xena looked at the young blonde woman with something of respect and love in her blue eyes, though she made no reply.

"Perhaps we should not altogether dismiss Inspector Lestrade at this juncture, either!" Holmes smiled a little stiffly. "He is not completely a fool in these affairs. Oh, I know I sometimes deride his capabilities; but at heart he is a rigorous officer, not without determination and some native genius on occasion! He may well follow the right path, eventually!"

"I do not dismiss the Police at all, Sherlock!" Mycroft shook his head as he replied. "They are quite capable of a proper investigation; but in their own, somewhat regulation-bound way. I hope more unrestricted methods may offer quicker, safer results!"

"I agree!" Haggard nodded in his turn, as he gazed at the ladies. "I think the presence of Miss Athenopolos and Miss Potidais can only be of great help. I am not one to be hide-bound by tradition when it comes to women's place in Society. While I may not go so far as to support suffrage for the vote, women certainly have much to offer society that is useful. I am sure these Ladies can be of inestimable help!"

"Thanks!" Xena's voice almost held the hint of a sneer as she replied to these remarks. "Well, I suppose your expertise with these gun things will help! Ain't there meant to be rules about owning such weapons? I mean, I know Dr Watson has one; and Moran has an arsenal! And I take it Mr Haggard has one too?"

"Certainly!" Mycroft nodded in agreement. "There are strict licensing laws in place. Owning a gun is looked on as a serious matter. The only problem is that there are so many un-licensed weapons in people's hands it's become something of a farce!"

"Can you pass that bottle of—what d'you call it,—port!" Gabrielle had her mind on other things. "I kinda like it! Another glass'd be great! So what's our next plan? Does Mr Haggard slip into the shadowy night and hunt the dreaded Colonel through the alleys like a tiger?"

"Like a tiger in the Smoke! Ha!Ha!*" Mycroft laughed aloud at his simple witticism; which, I'm afraid, fell on deaf ears as far as the ladies were concerned!

"Mycroft, I sometimes despair of you!" Holmes groaned at his playful brother. "Here we are, not a full day from having nearly been blown sky-high by the worst criminal in England, and you make fatuous jokes! Really!"

"Better a joke than a eulogy!" Haggard looked at Holmes calmly. "Unless, of course, it is for our prey!"

"I'll drink to that!" Xena raised her own glass; full of Mycroft's best dark port. "Here's to a quick end to the warmongering devil! May his bones be chewed by Cerberus* for eternity, and his rotten soul fester in Tartarus forever!"

"Somewhat excessive; but not without merit as a toast!" Mycroft held his glass high. "Be damned to Moran and his plans!"

To which we all raised our own glasses and drained them as one.

—OOO—

Notes.

1. Longshoremen. Stevedores or dock-labourers, generally engaged in loading or un-loading ships in harbour or at wharves.

2. Cutler Street. The Dock Company had several large stone-built multi-storied warehouses built along this street. They were reached by going along the East India Dock Road, then the Commercial Road before coming to Cutler Street itself. They were demolished or renovated in the late 1970's.

3. Houndsditch. A street close by Cutler Street.

4. '. . . like a lizard's.' Moriarty is described in 'The Final Problem' as having a face which '. . is forever slowly oscillating from side to side in a curiously reptilian fashion.'

5. Stradivarius. Holmes owned one of these famous violins which he told Watson he had bought at a junk market for 7/6 (7 shillings and sixpence, modern 0.75 pence; or $1.20).

6. Although not common telephones were in public use from 1880 in London. At the date of this story, 1894, they were much more widespread.

7. Diogenes Club, Pall Mall. Mycroft's lair. See 'The Greek Interpreter'. It is a Club which '. . contains the most unsociable and unclubbable men in town. No member is permitted to take the least notice of any other one. Save in the Stranger's Room, no talking is, under any circumstances, permitted. . .'

8. In Britain the franchise to vote only came to women over the age of 30 in 1918; providing they were householders, married to a householder or if they held a university degree. Universal suffrage for all female adults over 21 years of age was not achieved until 1928.

9. In 1893, the British colony of New Zealand became the first self-governing nation to extend the right to vote to all adult women.

10. Mycroft Holmes. See 'The Greek Interpreter'. Mycroft '. . . was a much larger and stouter man than Sherlock. His body was absolutely corpulent. . . Mycroft's eyes seemed to always retain that far-away introspective look which I (Watson) had only observed in Sherlock when he was exerting his full powers.' Also, in 'The Bruce-Partington Plans', he is described as '. . holding some small office under the British Government.. . . his position is unique. . . occasionally he _is_ the British Government. . . the conclusions of every Department are passed to him, and he is the central exchange, the clearing-house, which makes out the balance. . . all other men are specialists, but his specialism is omniscience.'

11. 'Strand' magazine. It was published monthly in London from 1891-1950. Famous for first publishing the 'Holmes' stories.

12. '. . the City.' The 'City of London' takes up approximately a square mile in the centre of Greater London. It is the historic core of London. It is today a major business and financial centre; as it was throughout the 19th century.

13. Lions. In Victorian times when a hostess had secured a literary figure as guest at one of her parties the process of exhibiting the worthy celebrity was known as 'lionising' the poor author.

14. Sir Henry Rider Haggard (1856-1925). He was knighted in 1912. Famous for the African adventure novels named in the above story. The personal/career details given about him are correct.

15. '. . leave the table.' Throughout the 19th century, and the early part of the 20th century, it was tradition that at the end of a dinner-party the ladies woud all rise and leave the men round the dining-table. The ladies would go off to a drawing-room where they would take tea and chat. The men would remain at the dining-table, drinking together and telling questionable stories, before re-joining the ladies a little later!

16. '. . massacre . . British Army.' The Battle of Isandlwana in Zululand, 1879. Part of the Anglo-Zulu War. A force of 1,700-2,000 mixed British and colonial troops, part of the main British force of 8,000 troops, was attacked and destroyed by a 15,000 strong Zulu army.

17. Boers. Dutch/Afrikaans word meaning 'farmer'. There were two Boer Wars fought by the white descendents of the original Dutch settlers in the Cape Colony and the Orange Free State, Transvaal. The first in 1880, when the Boers successfully regained the Transvaal from British control: and 1899-1902 when they fought for complete independence.

18. Sir Theophilus Shepstone (1817-1893). Was given control over the state of Transvaal by the British Government from 1877-1879. His time there was controversial politically.

19. Victoria. After her husband, Prince Albert, died in 1861 she became a virtual recluse from public life for almost 10 years afterwards; before finally returning to public engagements.

20. '. . tiger in the Smoke!'. A laboured reference on my part to the famous detective novel by Margery Allingham 'Tiger in the Smoke', 1952. The 'Smoke' being London itself.

21. Cerberus is a three-headed hound said to guard the gates of Hades.

—OOO—

Chapter 5 will offer, amongst other goodies, an extended description of a journey Watson takes with Xena and Gabrielle across London.

—OOO—


	5. Colonel Moran's Ultimatum

Chapter 5.

**Colonel Moran's Ultimatum**

The following morning I had something of a headache. Mycroft's port was vintage, but extra-strong; and my poor head was unused to it. Holmes, of course, showed no sign of exhaustion in any way! I could hear him, from my own bedroom, moving about in the living-room a full hour before I felt capable of joining him for a late breakfast.

"Ah, Watson! Glad to see you have survived brother Mycroft's banquet. Many don't, you know! Ha!Ha!" He turned the handle of the teapot towards me with a deft flick of his hand, then sat back to watch keenly as I buttered a slice of toast and poured a cup of tea as pale as I felt. "Your proposed voyage this morning will be the very thing! You recall the Greek ladies are expected here at 11a.m.? I, as we planned last night, will be going to the East India Docks with Mr Haggard to search out the man Gatch. And you my friend will, of course, be taking the ladies for a short trip on the Thames! They will appreciate being shown the lie of the land, as it were! Everything in London revolves around the River; its boats; and associated warehouses and Districts. I recommend a trip from Waterloo down to Greenwich; on one of the fine river-steamers!* That should cover a wide enough area. It will do you good, Watson!"

"Great God! Must I, Holmes!" I was aghast at the prospect, which I knew was looming closer with every passing minute. "I can barely keep my eyes open, as it is!"

"All the more reason for your stepping out and revelling in the exercise!" Holmes smiled, as he rose and crossed the room to recover his top-hat from the corner into which it had been unceremoniously thrown the evening before. "It will have an educational aspect. The ladies need to understand how busy and important the River is to this vast city, Watson! And you are just the man for the job!"

"What of Markham?" I watched as Holmes flung on his overcoat, then went to the desk where he put something in one of his pockets. "Is he on the prowl today?"

"Not till this evening." Holmes cast a last glance at me as he opened the landing-door. "Take care of the ladies! And watch out for Miss Gabrielle! I fear she may not be at her best on board ship! Till this evening!"

In another moment he was gone, and a few seconds later the thump of the street-door told of his exit into the throng crowding the pavements of Baker Street. I turned to my breakfast, after a quick glance at the clock; which told me I had some half-an-hour before the ladies arrived.

—OOO—

An hour later the ladies and I stood beside one of the several small piers adjoining Waterloo Bridge* watching a small steamer make its noisy and I have to admit, rather smelly, way towards the crowd round us waiting to embark. These included many men and women obviously ready to enjoy a pleasant day-trip; along with a rather large group of boisterous children, under the guidance of several adults. We had, at yesterday evening's meeting with Mycroft, decided that my giving the ladies an understanding of the general lay-out of the Metropolis would be beneficial. And that a fairly extensive view of the activities on the River would show them its importance to the City. Though I must admit I felt very little enthusiasm for the trip, in my present delicate state of nerves. For the twentieth time I promised myself never again to partake of Mycroft's fiendish port.

Xena and her companion had appeared early at Baker Street, causing me to almost choke over the last slice of toast as I hurried to join them. Xena wore a short brown jacket, tightly buttoned, with a long skirt of the same tone that reached her ankles; showing the usual boots she and her friend seemed to favour at all times.

Gabrielle was dressed somewhat more lightly. Her blouse was white and the jacket on top was of a fetching pale green which matched her eyes. Her skirt, of the same shade, was slightly shorter than Xena's; reaching to just above her ankles. I had the impression the young girl was more adventurous in the fashion line than her companion. Neither wore a hat; something else which, I had discovered, marked their rather unorthodox approach to the generally accepted fashion trends of the day. Nor, to my amazement, did either seem to have suffered any apparent ill-effects from their yesterday evening's experience with Mycroft's unstinted largesse.

Xena expressed great interest in the wide panorama which opened before us when we alighted from the growler which took us from Baker Street to Waterloo Bridge; but Gabrielle seemed somewhat less appreciative of the coming voyage. From the Embankment,* where we stood at the pier, could be seen to our left the vast bulk of Somerset House; like a Roman palace, only dirtier.*

"Bit of a monster, ain't it?" Xena was clearly unimpressed with the pile. "Looks like the architect was drawing it on parchment, and forgot to stop!"

"Er—well!" I found myself rather embarrassed, but before I could attempt to come to its rescue Gabrielle had found something of more interest to the two women.

"Xena!" She lightly took the wrist of the tall woman beside her and nodded in the opposite direction, upstream. "Look yonder, through the bridge arch!"

"Holy Gods! An obelisk!" Xena gazed at the ancient work of art standing proudly some 300 yards away, on our right-hand side. "What in Hades is that doin' here?"

"Cleopatra's Needle!" I cast my eye on the famous landmark,* while the women stared like a couple of Cook's tourists.* "It was a present from Egypt nearly twenty years ago. Makes a fine sight, don't you think?"

"Doubt if it had much to do with Cleopatra!" Xena examined the distant object keenly. "Looks like one of the Alexandria obelisks, to me!"

"I believe it did come from Alexandria, yes." I remembered some information I had read, perhaps in the 'Strand' magazine, on the subject. "The obelisk in Central Park, New York is its twin, I understand!"

"What're those towers in the distance upstream, beyond it?" Gabrielle was shading her eyes as she gazed over the gleaming river.

Dominating the horizon perhaps a mile away could just be seen, through the yellowish hazy atmosphere, the silhouette of a large building soaring into the sky, far above any other edifice nearby.

"The thin clock-tower on the right is Big Ben, ladies."* At least here I could be informative with impunity. "The rather taller squarer tower to its left is the Victoria Tower. They both make up part of the Houses of Parliament."*

"Ah, that's where your government works, ain't it?" Gabrielle nodded knowingly as she continued examining the view all round us.

"It is where they meet, certainly!" I braved an old joke, given this first-class opportunity. "As to whether much actual work of note is carried on there is a moot point, in some people's view!"

"Are we really goin'ta climb aboard this thing?" Xena's attention had returned to the river-steamer, which was now approaching the pier. In preparation it was hooting and tooting vigorously; while a heavy trail of black smoke wafted from its slim funnel as the paddle-wheels on each side thrashed the dirty water into foam. "Looks like it'll blow up any minute!"

"Have no fear, ladies; I fancy the boat will survive the day intact. Appearances can be deceptive, sometimes!"

Both the ladies and I turned to look at the tall dark-haired man; well-dressed in a black frock-coat and top-hat, who had materialised at our side and addressed us. He stood close to Xena; while Gabrielle was between Xena and myself. We stared at the genteel-spoken heavily-moustached man for some seconds before we all, together, suddenly realised it was none other than Colonel Moran in person; smiling tight-lipped at us as he raised a black-gloved hand to the brim of his hat.

"Good morning, ladies. A very fine morning for a jaunt on the river; if a trifle misty." He seemed not in the least put out, and completely at his ease.

Xena straightened and put a hand to her waist, as if she were contemplating something; but our unexpected visitor raised his own hand and pointed down at the water just off the pier where we all stood.

"Please, madam!" He indicated the somewhat churned up water lapping at the pier struts close by us, as the steamer continued its efforts to approach from the middle of the river. "If you would be so kind as to closely examine the surface of the water; just a little out from us? Just there!"

We all followed the direction of his finger as he indicated a stretch of water some ten feet out from the Embankment. Xena took a slow look at the man, then turned her eyes to the water, too.

As we all watched the spot a thin pillar of spray suddenly soared about a foot into the air, as if impelled by a massive force, before dispersing without a trace. No-one else apparently, among the many sight-seers milling all round us, noticed the event; gone as swiftly as it had appeared!

"Was that a sling-stone?" Gabrielle looked puzzled.

"No. A bullet!" I had instantly recognised the sight of a shot hitting the water, and turned to our visitor with a cold shiver.

"Yes!" He smiled, with no trace of humour in his eyes. "From a high-velocity rifle! I am not the only person capable of firing such a weapon! I must tell you my—ah—accomplice has a most suitable elevated vantage-point close by. You have, no doubt, taken note of the present crowd of somewhat unruly children all round us? These Charitable Outings; so well-organised by our Benevolent Societies, give the under-privileged so much enjoyment. In the present case, to what appears to be a rather large contingent of young orphans! How much trouble and responsibility they must all be to these fine upstanding chaperones we see along with them. Doctor—Ladies—it will not be at _you_ my friend fires his weapon, if anything troublesome occurs to my person whilst in your company! Do I make myself clear?"

Gabrielle inhaled so forcefully I heard the whistle of her breath. Xena stood upright and stiff; like a stone sculpture. I felt sick in my stomach as, all round us, the happy children continued their laughter and cries of joy as the steamer came ever-nearer to the pier. I had thought that, in Professor Moriarty, I had seen the worst the human soul could produce: I was wrong!

"I shall not detain you long." The man spoke with a clipped military intonation, as if giving orders at a morning roll-call. "I have other, more important matters, to attend to today. You have all been most indomitable in pursuit of my simple self! But I can only allow a certain amount of leeway in my plans, as you may very well guess! It is a pity the somewhat simple Markham has been twisted to your purposes; he was quite good, in his way! And you, Gabrielle! I am most disappointed! You have failed me; and I do not like failure! I should certainly have been far more suspicious of your earlier timely appearance in my affairs. I see you all managed to survive the sensational events at Belsize Park! How unfortunate! I was hoping that at least some of you might have been disposed of. A regrettable loss of good dynamite! But never fear—I have plenty left!"

"You —" What exactly Gabrielle now said of the man is, I am sad to say, unprintable in a family magazine: but it reflected, I think, all my own and Xena's desires in a smooth unbroken flow of truly colourful and disgusting language.

"My dear madam!" Moran only chuckled quietly after she had brought her remarks to a breathless close. "How outrageous! How vulgar! How unladylike! But I have no interest whatever in your opinions of me! To return to the important subject: I know why Mr Holmes is pursuing me. I am slightly less clear about why you delightful ladies are on my trail. But it does not matter; everything will come right in the end. For me, that is!"

Xena moved a step or two away from the edge of the pier; glancing round as if judging the relative positions of the crowds of children and other people all about us. She gazed keenly into the face of the evil presence beside her with an expression that brought a chill to my heart; but which seemed to glance off Moran as if he made nothing of it at all.

"You worthless reptile!" Xena fairly spat the words, so that I actually saw flecks of spittle on the man's cheek. "You think you're so great! Like an Emperor! But I've known Emperors who've reaped their just rewards: you won't be any different! We'll get you in the end!"

"Good gracious, madam!" Moran laughed with every appearance of composure, as he wiped his face languidly with a black silk handkerchief. "To find my poor self the cynosure of both Mr Holmes's, and your own, eyes is almost too thrilling! But I must go. I only wished; in this rather melodramatic confrontation as it were, to let you all understand that my patience has worn out. That from now on, if you continue your pursuit, I shall be merciless in my retaliation. Have no doubt of that! Enjoy your boat trip. I am sure it will be a most pleasant experience; even if these delightful young rapscallions all round us are rather high-spirited! The energy of youth, eh! Good morning!"

He turned with a smooth elegance and gently made his way through the tightly-packed crowd of happy couples, and boys and girls, milling all along the pier as they excitedly prepared to board the now docked steamer. Within seconds he had disappeared from sight.

"Dr Watson, we need a better plan! A _much better_ plan!" Xena spoke with a cold intensity. "That man is an animal!"

**End of Chapter 5.**

—OOO—

**Notes**

1. There were several companies who ran small paddle-steamers along the Thames, both for tourists and workers using the river as a highway.

2. Waterloo Bridge is about one mile downstream from the Houses of Parliament.

3. Victoria Embankment stretches from Blackfriars Bridge to Westminster Bridge, on the North side of the river. A 19th century social improvement.

4. Somerset House is a large Neoclassical building just east of Waterloo Bridge which housed several learned societies and Government offices in the 19th century. It is still in use today.

5. Cleopatra's Needle was brought from Alexandria in Egypt in 1878; a present from the ruling Khedive. It actually dates from the reign of Thutmose III and has no real connection with Cleopatra. Its twin obelisk now stands in Central Park, New York, where it was placed in 1881; another gift from the Khedive.

6. Thomas Cook (1808-1892) established his first tour in Britain in 1842, and his first international tour in 1855. By the 1890's 'Thomas Cook & Son' was a major worldwide success in transporting tourists.

7. Actually, Big Ben is the name of the large bell inside the clock-tower.

8. Houses of Parliament (Palace of Westminster). Designed and built by Sir Charles Barry (1795-1860), and Augustus Pugin (1812-1852). Foundation stone laid in 1840, and most work completed by 1860.

—OOO—

Chapter 6 will relate how Holmes, Haggard and Lestrade found Mr Gatch; and the consequences of their discovery.

—OOO—


	6. Longitude Torpedoes & Wapping Old Stairs

MCA/Universal/RenPics own all copyrights to everything related to 'Xena: Warrior Princess' and I have no rights to them.

—OOO—

**Chapter 6.**

**Longitude, Torpedoes, and Wapping Old Stairs**

After our unexpected encounter with Colonel Moran we boarded the steamer in a subdued mood, leaning against the port rail as it set off down-stream. The crowd of trippers milling all round us on the deck seemed carefree and happy; oblivious to what had just occurred! As we attempted to regain our composure Xena remarked, as we passed Blackfriars Bridge, on the soaring mass of the dome of St Paul's Cathedral rising far above the rooftops on the North bank.*

"Looks like a Roman mausoleum!" She sneered somewhat, clearly not very impressed with the mighty edifice. "Who's buried there?"

"Oh, various people!" I attempted to make light of the honoured and beautiful structure. "Poets, writers, Admirals; that sort of thing!"

"Humph!"

She bucked up a little, however, when the Tower* hove into view, sitting behind its massive stone ramparts, also on the North bank: even making a few approving remarks on its strength. Gabrielle, meanwhile, showed great interest in the high towers of the almost completed Tower Bridge* spanning the river nearby; being much amazed when I told her that each side of the roadway would eventually raise and lower to let ships sail underneath.

We then passed through the Pool, at Wapping, where a sea of masts from hundreds of moored vessels cut the skyline on either shore. These ranged from rusty dirty coastal steamers with salt-caked smokestacks, brigs, and schooners; to slim clippers and the latest ocean liners berthed in the various Basins.

I explained that many sailors resided between voyages in the innumerable doss-houses* and small boarding-houses cluttering Wapping's narrow un-aromatic streets. Xena noted the ease with which it was possible to gain access to the river-shore from the many wharves and jetties.

"What's that flight of steps? Seems quite a busy place!" Gabrielle pointed across at a large stone wall that bordered the river at this point; cut by the steps in question.

"Those are the famous Wapping Old Stairs, ladies."* I searched my memory for relevant details. "They open, as you see, on that stretch of relatively long wide foreshore. Perfect for small boats and barges; and then, with the Stairs leading right up to Wapping High Street close by, well, it's a perfect place to load or unload cargo or set out on the river."

"Yeah, ain't it just! If Moran wanted quick access to the river, this is a likely place for him to pick." Xena remained leaning on the rail, staring at the vista of jetties and barges drawn up on the narrow shore-line as they slipped slowly past. "He could easily board a boat and go down-river from there. Who uses that tavern on the shore?"

"The 'Prospect'? Mainly local longshoremen, sailors, bargemen, or artists." I scratched my chin in thought. "It has rather a famous history; artists love to sketch it!"

Gabrielle made a humorous remark about Xena visiting the highly visible public house, the famous 'Prospect of Whitby',* whose venerable stones and planks sat on the verge of the riverside; its piers washed by the wake of the boats and ships passing close by. Xena appeared most interested in this latter location as our boat glided noisily on.

"I think a visit there one night might not be a bad thing!" Xena glanced at Gabrielle, who returned her look with a short nod of agreement. "Yeah! Get to know the regulars; listen to the local gossip. Could be quite interesting!"

Next in order along the North shore came Limehouse, home of the city's indigenous Chinese and Asiatic population; with Rotherhithe on the South bank opposite. The river had curved round here and we were now sailing south, with the Isle of Dogs on our left hand and Deptford rapidly coming up in the distance on our right. Finally we rounded Millwall, on the tip of the Isle of Dogs, and opened up Greenwich Reach, where our destination lay.

As we slowly glided down-river both Xena and Gabrielle continued to observe the passing scene in detail. It was low water, so both banks showed as much shore as was possible. On these muddy stretches were drawn up the usual mixture of flat-bottomed barges; small skiffs; wherries; and light yawls: while on the water were anchored various barques, coasters, barquentines, and ancient clippers. In the many Basins which still lined the banks could be seen the high sides and masts of modern liners and cargo vessels from all parts of the world. Gabrielle remarked on the busy nature of the river's life; a subject that many other travellers had noted with amazement on their way through London.*

The river itself, all round our own boat, was alive with a multitude of cutters, launches, and barges of all sizes. The white or brown sails of innumerable smacks, ketches, and luggers plying their way up or down river made a fine sight on the water's surface. There were so many sails, in fact, it was somewhat difficult to see very far in either direction along the river without the eye being caught by a passing boat. The river was truly alive with activity and movement.

Soon afterwards our steamer gradually lost way; pointing its bow across the current towards the South bank. We had only traversed a small distance, however, when the captain eased the bow round again and reduced speed even more, as a low slim steamer came charging up-river in the centre of the channel; having right of way.

"What on earth's that, Doctor?" Gabrielle's voice was charged with interest and wonder, as she gazed intently at the vessel now rapidly approaching.

It had caught the attention of many others on our boat too, as quite a crowd came to the starboard rail to have the best view of the ship.

'It's one of the new Torpedo-Boats, Gabrielle. A Navy vessel."* I could identify the boat instantly from my daily reading of the newspapers and, I blush to admit, was rather pleased to be able to expand on the topic with the small amount of information at my command. "A relatively new concept in naval warfare. Some say it marks the end of the Battleship; nonsense, of course!"

"How does it operate?" Xena also seemed most interested in the ship.

"Well, the main armaments are those curious horizontal tubes. Torpedo tubes! One you see just behind the small bridge and funnel; the other nearer the stern!"

The ship's deck was hardly more than eight feet above the water; the superstructure was light, with a single story bridge held up by metal columns and clad with loose canvas sides. The funnel, immediately behind the small bridge, was slightly raked and not over fifteen feet high; hardly higher than the heads of those standing on the bridge. The vessel was also not over twenty feet in breadth, if that; but seemed curiously long, being around 120 feet in length. The bow showed the new curved turtle-deck design; meant to create a smoother run through the water for the vessel in heavy weather: or so the theory goes! Its single funnel was bravely, and throat-catchingly, bellowing dark clouds of smoke that wafted across and enveloped us as the vessel slid past.

"Torpedo? What does that do?" Gabrielle turned to me with a raised brow.

"Well, they were invented by a Mr Whitehead!* Essentially, each tube fires a long metal cylinder filled with explosive that runs through the water under its own power slightly below the surface till it reaches its target; then explodes!" I saw the women exchange glances, as if this information had opened an interesting line of thought for both of them.

"Is that so!" Xena scratched her chin with a long finger. "That could be very useful, back in my own country. There are some people I'd just love to use that on!"

"Naval armaments, ladies!" I laughed at the thought of attacking a personal enemy with a torpedo. Not that there were not some men whom I also thought might benefit by the experience. "Only available to Governments, I'm afraid!"

The boat sailed past, leaving a pall of heavy smoke wafting along the deck, making many passengers cough and wave their hands to disperse the oily haze. The captain brought our steamer's head round once more; and in less than a minute we pitched up easily at Greenwich Pier to disgorge those sight-seers whose objective was either the Royal Naval College, formerly Greenwich Hospital;* or Greenwich Park and the Royal Observatory.* Here I led the ladies ashore amongst the milling crowds of other excited trippers.

The Naval College spread itself in a beautiful Classical panorama of pillared walks and porticoes. We had chosen this renowned building as our destination because of its position downriver, and the wide panoramic vistas of either shore which the short voyage provided. Xena and Gabrielle were thus enabled to gain a good idea of the size and extent of the city; and especially the activities of London Port, the greatest and busiest in the world!

"Why, this is a palace!" Gabrielle was astonished at the magnificence of the Royal Naval College. "And you say it used to be a hospital where old warriors were treated, or retired to?"

"Yes." I smiled at the curious way she put it, as we walked across to the pillared sweep of the building. "Basically, that is right. Sailors, in fact! It closed as a Hospital in the 1870's, and became the Royal Naval College. Which explains the presence of that rather smelly Torpedo-Boat in the vicinity, of course!"

"We could retire to a place like this, Gabrielle; when we're old—and you're grey!" Xena looked at her friend with an appraising expression, as if expecting a firm reply; which she received.

"Grey, eh?" Gabrielle snorted contemptuously. "Probably from the effort of pushing you in your wheelchair, old warrior!"

"Ha-ha!" Xena grinned in return as she laid a gentle hand on her friend's shoulder.

This was the first really relaxed moment I had seen with her. She obviously loved her companion dearly. Indeed, it was only at this point I first fully realised the depth and nature of the two women's friendship.

I do not intend to publish the details of this adventure in the 'Strand' magazine, or anywhere else, so feel able to relieve my feelings in a rather more open manner than would otherwise be the case. As a doctor I have seen some frankly idiotic remarks made in various learned journals and books on this aspect of the sexual nature. For my part many years of medical practice have shown a strong emotional tie between members of the same sex to be commoner than generally thought. I believe it is a sad comment on modern times that such persons feel it necessary to pursue their lives in secret. However, I must return to the matter in hand.

"What's that building in the distance?" Gabrielle nodded towards a square white villa standing in the centre of the far vista, between the two halves of the Royal Naval College buildings.

"The Queen's House."* I was walking on Xena's left side, while Gabrielle strode along at her right-hand. "Though no Queen has lived there for over a hundred years!"

"And that grassy hill at the back—with a house on top?" Xena shaded her eyes to scan the far distance.

"Greenwich Park—and the Royal Observatory." I smiled at the women. "Both open to the public. That's where we shall be meeting Holmes and Haggard, as you know."

Xena bent suddenly to take the hem of her long brown skirt in one hand and shake it slightly; revealing the heavy boots she constantly wore. I had noticed she tended to walk with long confident strides, and her present clothes appeared somewhat restrictive to her.

"Damn these skirts." She grunted with annoyance. "Wish I could wear my usual gear!"

"Our British fashions are a trifle different from those worn in Greece, I take it, madam?" I had no real understanding of modern women's fashion, but supposed there was some disparity in the Mediterranean country's styles. "If you have brought some of your own clothing with you, why not change into those later?"

"It'd probably scare the people!" Xena and Gabrielle exchanged meaning glances, which intrigued me. "Our usual clothes would—create too much interest, I think!"

A minute's walk brought us to the Queen's House, resplendent in its white Classical perfection. It was connected to outlying wings by two long colonnades on each side, built on slightly raised grass-covered causeways, roofed and supported by long lines of Doric columns.

"What a beautiful house!" Gabrielle was obviously enchanted by the building. "I'd love to live in a place like this! Hear me, Xena?"

"Ha, some chance!" Xena laughed again; the light shining from her blue eyes. "An old ramshackle Inn's the best I can offer. Take it or leave it!"

"I'll take it, Xena! I'll take it!" Gabrielle stopped to look directly at her friend as she spoke; and once again, for a moment, I was privileged to see the enormous love that clearly flowed between the two.

We walked on; climbing a short flight of steps to pass under the shadow of the colonnade, before stepping out the other side onto a wide expanse of grassy plain: Greenwich Park itself!

—OOO—

While we strolled across the grass, listening to the happy chatter of the many people all round us also out enjoying the Spring day, I tried to explain the importance of the Building standing on its slight prominence ahead of us.

"The Royal Observatory was instigated by King Charles II, and is the site of the Greenwich Meridian." I somehow expected a question at this point, and wasn't disappointed.

"I can see you're awash with information, Doctor!" Gabrielle laughed with a gentle irony which took any sting from her words. "Come on, tell us all you know!"

"Well, you're right, I admit!" I laughed in my turn. "But before I say any more might I explain the presence of all these policemen. You note the attendance of the constabulary in some force!"

"Yeah, I was going to mention it!" Xena nodded as she looked around.

On the path on which we stood, and visible in the distance beside the building, could easily be seen the uniformed figures of a surprising number of police-officers ostentatiously making their presence felt.

"They're here because of an incident some three months ago." I frowned at the memory, which had still not been fully accounted for. "In February a Frenchman, Martial Bourdin,* was walking up this very path on his way to the Observatory, when he was blown up by a bomb he was carrying. It had apparently gone off prematurely!"

"Why did he want to blow up the Observatory?" Xena looked curiously at me as we continued towards the building in question.

"Nobody really knows!" I admitted frankly. "The general view is that he was an anarchist of some kind. Holmes believes that to be the most likely explanation, anyway."

"Well, well!" Xena pursed her lips in thought. " '_Et in Arcadia ego'_, eh!"*

"Just so, Xena, just so!" I nodded in agreement as we came out in front of the Observatory; its red-brick facade shining in the weak sun.

"I don't want to be a nuisance, Doctor Watson—" but Gabrielle was interrupted as she spoke.

"—Oh, really!" Xena sniggered.

"—but can you tell me what this is?" Gabrielle adopted a superior tone, as if nearby tall dark-haired Greek women didn't count, while she indicated something on the ground in front of us. "I, at least, want to increase my knowledge!"

"That is the Prime Meridian!" I also looked at the brass strip set into the gravel of the courtyard, running right across in a straight line.

"No—no! Let me!" Xena grinned, gently pushing Gabrielle a little to the side with one hand. "I wanna ask this! What's a meridian; and what's so special about this one?"

It was at this point I realised I was probably wandering into deep waters. Suffice to say I soon discovered neither Greek lady was au fait with the concept of Longitude; and when I began to explain as best I could, they broke out into unaffected laughter.

"Lines on the ground that tell you how far round the world you're travelling!" Gabrielle could not hide her mirth at the idea. "What happens when you're at sea? Where are the lines then?"

"Or going up a mountain?" Xena felt impelled to add her penny's-worth, with a grin. "Or across a snow field?"

"And when you go through a city—do you have to climb over the roofs and through people's houses to keep on the right trail?" Gabrielle couldn't keep back her glee, and laughed with delight.

"I surrender, ladies!" I smiled too, admitting my defeat graciously. After all, I suppose it was a strange supposition when you came right down to it. "Anyway, here are our friends awaiting us!"

Three figures detached themselves from the shadows of the Observatory's main entrance to come across in our direction. Holmes was dressed in his usual black frock-coat; Haggard wore a sort of tweed hunting-jacket; looking every inch the country sportsman come up for a jaunt in the city; while the thin tall figure of Inspector Lestrade added a touch of authority, as he self-consciously took off his flat-topped bowler in greeting.

"Damnation!"—was the first word Haggard spoke, on hearing Xena's account of our earlier meeting with Moran. "The man's beyond the pale! A bounder and a cad! I'd like to get him in my sights!"

We had crossed over to the side of the courtyard and seated ourselves on a long bench by a low brick wall. Here Holmes took over the narrative as he explained what the three men had found in the East India Docks that morning.

"Haggard and I gained entrance easily enough." Holmes tightened his lips in what I recognised as an amused smile. "The fact that Lestrade met us both at the Gate probably smoothed matters there! Anyway, we found the office used by Gatch and I gave it a thorough examination. Instantly, to my eye, it was evident foul play had taken place there not long before!"

"Yes, ladies, Holmes observed part of a broken pencil on the floor, near the desk." Lestrade spoke up, clearly impressed by the detective's expertise. "He was down on his knees in a jiffy! Spots of blood! And a partial footprint, in blood, on the dusty floorboards!"

"It was all quite clear to even the most amateur eye!" Holmes, as ever, affected a light approach. "On the floor were certain scraps of paper which, on inspection, proved to be part of a longer letter. No doubt abstracted by the perpetrators and most likely destroyed by now!"

"Holmes told us how the few words left on the scraps probably made up some kind of confession by the man Gatch; as they were in his hand-writing!" Haggard looked at the detective admiringly. "Amazing!"

"Oh no, mere deduction!" Holmes waved the congratulations aside. "It took little effort to follow the course of events after that. The persons responsible were clearly thugs of the lowest intellect! They made no attempt to hide their tracks as they dragged Gatch's body away. If, indeed, they realised they were leaving a trail at all!"

"It was like watching a well-trained bloodhound at work!" Haggard was obviously deeply impressed by his first experience of the great man in action. "Holmes led us out the building and down a nearby lane till we hit up against the outer Dock Wall. Nearly thirty feet high, you know! And it was there we found the poor chap!"

"In a sort of dark passage-way between the Wall and the rear of a building, lying under an old tarpaulin and a pile of broken wooden crates." Lestrade spoke moodily, with no trace of the excitement of the chase shown by Haggard. "He was dead, of course!"

"Dead?" Gabrielle's voice quivered with emotion. She was not, I think, a person who took anyone's death lightly. "How?"

"Well, let's just say I ain't seen anyone deader since the Ripper's time!"* Lestrade raised a knowing eyebrow. "Not just merely dead; but _absolutely_ dead: if you catch my meaning!"

—OOO—

**Notes—**

1. The descriptions of places and Districts on either bank of the river as they pursue their voyage are all geographically correct.

2. Tower of London. The White Tower, which gives the entire castle its name, was built by William the Conqueror in 1078.

3. Tower Bridge was officially opened on 30 June 1894 by the Prince of Wales (the future King Edward VII), and his wife, the Princess of Wales (Alexandra of Denmark).

4. Doss-house=flophouse. A very cheap lodging with minimal services.

5. Wapping Old Stairs and the 'Prospect of Whitby' still exist, though they are some distance apart. The steps beside the 'Prospect' are called the Pelican Stairs.

6. The descriptions of the vast amount of traffic using the river, jetties, wharves, and Basins are a true reflection of the busy nature of the river at that time, as can be seen in old photographs or paintings.

7. The Torpedo-Boat as described is fairly accurate to designs of the time. They were long, low, fast, and relatively unseaworthy; their turtle-foredecks being somewhat counter-productive in heavy weather.

8. Robert Whitehead (1823–1905), an Englishman, invented the self-propelled torpedo in the late 1860's; perfecting it into the 1870's.

9. Greenwich Hospital (Royal Naval College). Founded 1694—completed 1712. Sir Christopher Wren, John Hawksmoor, and Sir John Vanbrugh all had parts in its design and construction.

10. Royal Observatory. Commissioned by King Charles II, and built by Sir Christopher Wren and Robert Hooke. Opened in 1676.

11. Queen's House. Built 1614-1617. Designed by Inigo Jones. Originally as an addition to the now demolished Palace of Greenwich. Then incorporated into the design of the later Greenwich Hospital.

12. Martial Bourdin (1868-1894). A Frenchman, suspected of being an anarchist, carried a bomb to Greenwich Park in February 1894. But it apparently went off prematurely, killing him alone.

13. 'Et in Arcadia ego'. Latin phrase translated as 'And in Arcadia I'. Interpreted as a memento mori—'Even in Arcadia _I_ _exist_'—as if spoken by the personification of Death itself! See Wiki.

14. The Prime Meridian is the meridian (line of longitude) at which the longitude is defined to be 0°. It passes through the Royal Observatory and is marked by a stainless steel line on the ground. See Wiki.

15. Jack the Ripper pursued his activities in Whitechapel from August to November 1888, killing five women.

—OOO—

Chapter 7 will show Xena and Gabrielle mixing with the longshoremen, bargemen, and sailors, who frequent the 'Prospect of Whitby' at Wapping Wall. A malodorous and dangerous area filled with low-life's and general scum of the earth. Our heroines are in their element!

—OOO—


	7. A Prospect of Interest

—OOO—

**Chapter 7.**

'**A Prospect of Interest'**

Inspector Lestrade led us all up a narrow staircase to the first floor of the Royal Observatory then along a corridor that ended in an oak door. Inside was a squarish panelled room with a tall window looking out on the Park. A solid functional table and several straight-backed wooden chairs served as minimal furniture, while a strong aroma of polish hung in the air.

"Welcome to my abode, Ladies and Gents!" Lestrade waved a proprietorial hand round the room. "This little den has been given over to the constabulary for the time being, by the Authorities. Makes a comfortable office."

"Looks like a museum!" I ventured this remark as the room, though high-ceilinged, had a rather musty atmosphere.

"I fancy it is used only rarely, Watson!" Holmes glanced around and focussed on a display table against the far wall. This was low, with a glass top, and from what I could see held some kind of large timepiece or clock.

"I was given instructions about that there item, Mr Holmes!" Lestrade stood beside the case, looking down at the instrument under the glass. "The Assistant Director of the Observatory himself told me it was of some importance, and to be careful of it."

"It is one of Harrison's chronometers!" Holmes had leant over to study the object with his usual careful scrutiny and nodded in agreement. "A highly delicate and significant instrument. A historical treasure, in fact!"*

"A machine for telling the time—amazing!" Gabrielle suddenly turned to her companion, with a slight frown of recollection. "Remember when we took that old heavy metal box to Antikythera, Xena; and then lost it in a sea-storm? Wasn't that a clock-thing, too?"*

"Well that's as may be, but we have something of more topical interest to consider here!" Lestrade interrupted her reminiscences mercilessly, beckoning everyone to be seated.

Xena was the first to speak after we had arranged ourselves round the table. She seemed to have thrown off her previous sense of restraint, and become much more authoritative and determined.

"Why was Gatch killed?" Her first question was terse and aimed at the heart of the matter. "And what made you suspect he wanted out?"

"He obviously had doubts about the mission! I found remnants of a letter he was in the process of writing, before he met his untimely end!" Holmes laid some pieces of paper on the oaken board. "There isn't much left; but enough to hazard a realistic guess about its contents."

" '—_very little chance of success. Probably all convicted._—' " Xena took the three pieces of paper and read them out slowly. " '—_mean to clear out tomorrow. I can take the ferry to France where I am sure Colo_—' ". And the last reads '—_know _R_ is at the head of the matter. This person has a high position in Society and can_—'. What do you make of that, Mr Holmes? Seems very fragmentary!"

"Not much to go on! Like a mosaic with most of the tesserae missing!"* Gabrielle ruffled a hand through her hair and glanced at everyone round the table. "Are you sure he was trying to confess, Mr Holmes?"

"Such a hypothesis seems to cover the available facts!" Holmes mused silently for a moment; fingertips held close together in front of his lips. "This person 'R' is high in Society! In a situation such as that people cannot hide; they must be continually in the public eye! Which should help us in tracing them!"

"Your brother Mycroft would seem to be ideally placed to carry out that investigation!" Xena looked at Holmes from icily blue eyes. "Can you name any suspects right now?"

"Ha, madam!" Holmes grimaced and waved the question away with a flourish. "To name suspects in such conditions, without evidence, is simply to muddy the already too murky waters! We must delve further into the complex activities of these people."

"Yeah!" Gabrielle nodded in agreement, and looked directly at Holmes. "As far as motivations go I have a suspicion Moran likes to keep close to the River. Maybe makes him feel safe!"

"You're right, Gabrielle!" Xena parted her lips in what was obviously meant to be a smile, as she looked at Gabrielle "The slimy rat'll use it as his escape route whenever he needs to make his getaway in a hurry! I think a visit to that riverside tavern, the 'Prospect of Whitby', may stir up some interesting facts! It's amazing what you can overhear in a crowded bar, when the drink's flowing freely!"

"Ladies!" I was somewhat disturbed at their mingling with the rough characters to be found down Wapping way at night. "Is that wise? The locals are—rough and ready, to say the least of it!"

"Our friends appear determined, Watson!" Holmes waved a hand in the air as if in acceptance of the inevitable. "However, I really cannot allow you to go unescorted. I fancy Watson and the inimitable Markham will prove useful as companions!"

"I'm not standing back out of this either, Holmes!" Haggard's expression radiated determination. "I've been in worse hell-holes in Africa, and I know how to take care of myself!"

"Well, gentlemen, if Inspector Lestrade can arrange some kind of official presence on the river later tonight, I think we can guarantee an interesting evening for everyone!" Xena smiled again in her peculiar way; wherein she bared her teeth, but with no visible sign of humour. "What about you, Mr Holmes?"

"I had intended to accompany Markham to another corner of London this evening." The detective shrugged, as if it were a matter of no import. "But I can spare him for this—adventure—I suppose, and go alone. I am sure you will be safe in his company, ladies; and all will turn out well!"

"Oh, it'll turn out well, alright." This time Xena's expression resembled the snarl of a tiger about to spring. "Gabrielle and I just love drinking with the lads at night in a really good tavern!"

—OOO—

Our two hired growlers rattled to a halt at the west end of Wapping Wall around 11.30pm that night; making a horrible racket on the cobbles in the otherwise nearly deserted street.* Luckily the few drunks and passers-by took no notice as we disembarked. The cabman Blake, apparently unaffected by the earlier debacle at Belsize Park, was again in charge of the four-wheelers with instructions to await our return later.

Haggard and Markham emerged from one growler, while I helped the two ladies from my own. We huddled under a gas-lamp at the edge of the pavement for a last exchange before heading in the direction of the tavern.

"Watson and I both have pistols!" Haggard spoke tersely as he glanced up and down the street. "You ladies have daggers too! So we should be well protected from any nonsense that may break out. What's your plan, again, Xena?"

"Just a quiet reconnaissance to listen to the gossip!" Xena shrugged her shoulders. "Any snippet of information could be useful."

"Yeah! We've done the same thing dozens of times in Greece." Gabrielle nodded in agreement. "Though admittedly London isn't a Grecian bandit-town!"

"I don't know so much, Gabrielle!" Xena seemed unconvinced. "From what I've seen so far this dump could give the slums and drinking-dens of Piraeus a run for its money any day!"*

Wapping Wall was in fact a rather narrow street with dingy three-story buildings on either hand. They were a mixture of dwelling-houses and warehouses, with many shop premises at street-level. These included clothes-shops; general stores; butcher's shops; and more specialised emporiums selling curious implements and tackle associated with the river, sea, and boats. Although invisible we were so close to the river that a strong aroma of mud and dampness hung heavily in the air. The slight sheen reflecting on the cobbles from the faint drizzle only seemed to increase the atmosphere of decay and dereliction which appeared to be the primary aspect of the whole area.

"If yer follows my advice it'd be best if Mr Haggard 'ere comes along with me, and the rest of you follows on behind." Markham scratched his stubbly chin. "Separate parties, so ter speak! That ways we can cover a wider area; spread ourselves about!"

"Sounds good to me!" Xena agreed readily enough.

Immediately we broke into groups; letting Haggard and Markham stroll forward to enter the tavern first. They appeared to have struck up a casual acquaintance while travelling in their growler, and now walked down the street as if they had been friends for years. Haggard was dressed in a rough black pilot jacket with silver buttons and dark heavy cotton trousers of the type known in America, I believe, as jeans. Markham was just his usual slightly scruffy self; looking for all the world as if he was a natural part of the landscape. They both even affected a rolling gait as if they had recently been at sea!

Here I might perhaps describe the two ladies in more detail. After retiring to their rooms in Malet Street to change they had rendezvoused with us back at Baker Street earlier in the evening. To say their clothing raised eyebrows would be an understatement. Xena and Gabrielle arrived dressed in loose free-flowing skirts significantly shorter than the usual style of our times; so short in fact that most of their boots were visible. Their waists were concealed by loose jackets; which was just as well as they both had daggers in scabbards concealed at their belts. Her jacket also served to hide the metal ring which Xena apparently invariably carried as a weapon when necessary. Coloured bandanas round their necks only added to their natural foreign appearance.

When Haggard had remarked, in Baker Street, on the thin leather bands and metal bars noticeable on the outside of Gabrielle's boots she obligingly raised her skirt hem to disclose a pair of thin curiously wrought daggers tied there.

"Sais?" Holmes merely nodded knowingly. "Fine weapons for defence I believe!"

"I had thought ladies of your character were only to be encountered in phantasy!"* Haggard had looked at the women with even more respect. "But I see I must change my opinion!"

So, now seeing the ladies in the light of the street gas-lamp, I wondered what their reception would be in the 'Prospect of Whitby' when we all entered. In London were to be found examples of almost all nations of the world; especially those connected to the sea and its affairs. Lascars, Chinese, Japanese, Australians, Americans of all types, and citizens of several African countries.* There were also many representatives from Eastern Europe, particularly Poland and Russia, to be found in the narrow streets leading to the river all over London. London being, in my opinion, the most successfully cosmopolitan city in the world. But I must not boast.

"If you stick with Gabrielle, Dr Watson, I'll mingle with the crowd when we enter the tavern. See if the locals open up to me!" Xena spoke in a tone which debarred argument, so I merely nodded silently.

I had come prepared with my revolver in my right pocket, and a handful of loose ammunition in my left pocket; so was feeling quite easy. Though I hoped it would not come to shooting: the British constabulary having such a strong aversion to the use of firearms by its clientele!

Seen from the river the 'Prospect of Whitby' had a romantic aura; chiefly because of its several balconies, railings, and large bow window on the first floor facing the river; with Pelican Stairs descending to the foreshore immediately on its left side. Whereas, from the street, its front appeared similar to any other three-story house of its kind. It was built of grey-yellow bricks mostly hidden beneath a coating of dark soot, and had two wide small-paned windows on the ground floor where the saloons were located. Above were two floors of rooms and private offices, topped by a high cornice in which was moulded in deep-cut letters the name of the establishment.

A steady stream of patrons ebbed and flowed through the centrally-placed entrance, so I hung back a little to let Haggard and Markham enter well ahead of us. Then we stepped up to the single door and pushed through into a wide corridor. On either hand were other doors leading into the two main saloons. Haggard and Markham had disappeared into the left-hand room, so I led the ladies into that opposite.

On the far side was a waist-high oaken counter where several customers were leaning comfortably. The rest of the room was filled with tables and some side-booths against the walls. Xena unerringly led us over to a vacant booth; saw Gabrielle settled beside me, then casually walked over to the counter and stood between two men. Our adventure had begun!

—OOO—

"Let Xena do things her way, Doctor!" Gabrielle whispered quietly, leaning over the table. "She generally gets results, though there may be some—what do you say—hearty activity!"

"Hearty activity!" I was non-plussed, then realised she probably meant some form of physical action: something that sent cold shivers done my spine. I remembered Belsize Park, and began to wonder if this expedition was so necessary after all.

"Seems quite a comfortable place!" Gabrielle looked around with evident interest, collaring a passing waiter with an experienced gesture and her boot stuck uncompromisingly into his path. "What do you have to drink here, mister? Watered-down wine? Ale? Mead? What's the local brew?"

"Ah, yer Greek ain't yer?" The old thin grey-haired man nodded knowingly. "Recognised yer accent straight orf! We 'ave a Greek captain comes 'ere fer 'is dinner three times a week! What'd yer want ter drink? We takes in barrels o' three-star ale from the Lion Brewery just up-river. Yer'll like it!"*

"Send along a quart jug, then!" Gabrielle laughed easily and looked over at me. "What about you, Doc—er,—Sam?"

"Ale sounds fine." I watched as the man limped off to fetch the order, then gazed mournfully at my companion. "Sam?"

"You gotta make spur-of-the-moment decisions sometimes!" She grinned unashamedly. "Anyway, I think it suits you!"

From somewhere, apparently in the heart of the steadily increasing crowd filling the saloon, came a deep reverberating burst of laughter; fading away almost as soon as it began: but Gabrielle had clearly heard it too. She sat back with a jerk; scrutinising the whole room with a narrowed gaze. Curiously, the majority of customers in the crowded smoke-filled bar carried on their conversations without interruption; seemingly unaware of the sound. Looking across to the counter I saw Xena had turned round and was also looking up and down. Then she casually stared over in our direction and I saw Gabrielle exchange a knowing look with her friend.

"He's here! Oh, Gods!"

"Who's here?" I didn't want any casual acquaintance of the women showing up at such a delicate, not to say dangerous, moment. "Did you hear that laugh? Seemed to go right through my head. Did I really hear it?"

"It's—er, it's—er, it might be someone we know!" Gabrielle seemed anxious and frowned as she wriggled into a more comfortable position on the narrow bench. "Take no notice! He won't—er—cause any trouble; I hope!"

"Someone you both know?" I was frankly interested, and not a little concerned. This was not a situation where passing friends could stop by for a quiet chat. "All I can say is—I hope he loves a fight!"

"Oh, he lives for nothing else, believe me!" Gabrielle actually sneered, glancing again at her friend on the other side of the room. "If there's a fight, he'll be right in amongst it all, take my word for it!"

—OOO—

**Notes: —**

1. John Harrison (1693–1776). Invented the marine chronometer and investigated the problem of establishing 'longitude' for ships at sea.

2. The 'Antikythera Mechanism'. Discovered on the sea-bed near the island of Antikythera, Greece. A sophisticated Greek clock-like astronomical computer dated to around 100BC. See Wiki.

3. Tessera. Plural 'tesserae'. The small individual stone cubes which make up the pattern of a floor mosaic.

4. Wapping Wall is a continuation of Wapping High Street, and runs alongside the North bank of the river Thames.

5. Piraeus. The port town supplying Athens. Did not aspire to the elegance of the nearby city.

6. Phantasy. The most common spelling in the 19th century, until 'fantasy' gained popularity in the 20th century.

7. Lascars. These were native sailors from the Indian sub-continent, or other countries East of the Cape of Good Hope. Many British ships employed them, and a large population resided in London.

8. Lion Brewery. Stood on the South bank of the river just upstream from Waterloo Bridge, and nearly opposite Cleopatra's Needle. The Royal Festival Hall and Queen Elizabeth Hall now occupy the site. The gigantic 'Coade stone' standing lion which adorned the roof parapet of the brewery now guards the South bank access to Westminster Bridge. The North bank access to Westminster Bridge is guarded by a bronze statue of Boudica in her two-horse chariot, immediately facing the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben.

—OOO—

In Chapter 8 the worst happens. There's a fight and the 'Prospect', and everyone in it, gets knocked about a bit!

—OOO—


	8. The Battle of Whitby1

—OOO—

**Chapter 8.**

'**The Battle of Whitby—1'**

"I wonder what Mr Haggard and Markham are doing in the other room?" Gabrielle seemed to pull her thoughts together with a supreme effort and looked enquiringly at me. "I think we can leave Xena to herself for a while. Shall we see what the men are up to, Dr Watson?"

She stepped out from the half-enclosed booth and I followed her to the door. I imagined Xena would be safe for the moment; the people crowding the noisy saloon appeared to be seamen, longshoremen, costermongers and various ladies of doubtful repute: simply the ordinary residents of the neighbourhood.* I had a suspicion both Gabrielle and Xena could more than handle this type of company.

Together we crossed the passage and entered the other saloon. Here we found the two men sitting at a table by the large bow window that looked out on the Thames, happily ensconced behind tankards of beer and apparently perfectly at ease.

"Hallo!" Haggard seemed relaxed and quite at home. "Markham has just been regaling me with quite the most uninhibited anecdote I've ever heard! Did you know he'd done time in Africa as a soldier? How is Xena?"

"She seems comfortable!" I had to speak quite loudly to be heard through the hubbub in the crowded room. I took a chair, after Gabrielle had seated herself. "I think she's at home in concerns of this nature! By the way, did you hear a strange deep laugh from someone a few minutes ago that seemed to hang in the air?"

Markham and Haggard looked questioningly at each other then both shrugged their shoulders in tandem, like an act on the Music-Hall.

"No sir, nobody laughing outt'a turn 'ere!" Markham glanced around the smoky room. "Jest the usual crowd o' sailors and traders; nobody unusual that I kin see!"

"Well, keep your ears peeled. Somebody may yet let slip a nugget of information. Meanwhile, perhaps I should buy another round!" I raised a hand to signal a nearby waiter. "Four tankards of three-star ale, please."

"Ha, ha! That's the ticket!" Markham beamed around at us. The small but powerful man seemed pleased with life. "This is the way to spend the evening, ain't it! If all we 'ad ter do was sit 'ere and drink I think I could get used ter it!"

"While we drink we don't get any information, that's the trouble!" Gabrielle voiced my own thoughts on the matter.

"That, if yer don't mind me sayin', is where yer wrong, Miss!" Markham again leaned forward, and now spoke in a quieter voice. "While Mr 'aggard and I 'ave been sittin' 'ere I've been keeping my ears and eyes open. D'yer want ter know what I've discovered?"

"That would be of interest, yes!" Haggard darted a quick smile in my direction, as if not very hopeful of the results. "What could you possibly have heard or seen in this smoke-filled den, that I haven't?"

"Ah, well!" The rogue ventured a grin somewhat lacking in teeth, which set Haggard back in his chair; not having had any warning. "It's what yer look at, and what yer listen to that matters. For instance, see that indi'widual in the blue-ish suit sittin' at the door, beside the grubby chimney-sweep? That there's Billy Barnes! If it's bent; or shady; or 'as a bit of a pong about it, he'll 'ave its history at 'is fingertips! Knows everything that goes on in Wapping, 'e does! And that's not all; a short while ago, while Mr Haggard here was explainin' the plot o' his book—'_Her_'—to me—"

" '_She_'!" The unregarded author felt compelled to interject.

"Exactly!" Markham continued unruffled. "I was sort'a listening, but I had more of an ear for two coves sittin' at that table behind us. They left jest as Dr Watson and Miss Potidais came in. Part o' what I 'eard them say was—'_there's a lot of the boys' 'ere tonight! A conference by the Colonel, and one o' his minions!_'—. That must'a happened earlier, before we arrived; but most of them's still here, I think!"

"That's worth knowing!" Gabrielle sat up excitedly, scanning the room with sharp eyes. She was suddenly intent and focussed. "Wonder who they are? And how many of them are still here? Mr Haggard, could you go through to Xena and tell her about this? If Markham can introduce Dr Watson and me to this Billy Barnes we may find out something useful. You don't think Barnes is in with the Colonel, do you, Markham?"

"Nah!" Markham shook his head confidently. "He's too sharp fer that! Got his own business goin' on under the counter, as it were. He wouldn't countenance the Colonel fer a moment. Mebbe that's what's brung him here this evening? Doin' a bit o' spyin' on his own account!"

"Will you go over and speak to him?" Gabrielle looked at Markham with a gleam in her eye. "Or should we all just descend on him together?"

Haggard gave us a nod at this moment, as he rose and slipped quietly in amongst the crowd on his way next door.

"I figure we oughta all go together." Markham frowned slightly with thought as he clambered to his feet. "That way he'll be sorta faced with too many to argue wiv! Come on then, let's go an' put the kibosh on Billy's evenin'!"*

—OOO—

"Wotcher, Billy!"*

"Oh, Gawd!"

"Is that any way ter greet an old pal, now!" Markham laughed as he indicated the rest of our group. "Especially a pal who's brought his friends to meet a famous man like yerself! Mind if we draws up chairs and joins the meeting, so ter speak?"

"I do, but that won't stop you, I know!" Barnes glanced quickly at the soot-blackened sweep sitting by his side, then at us as we settled ourselves round the table. "So wot's this? Some Cook's towrists on a jaunt, an you're their bear-leader—ha-ha!"*

"Now, Billy, don't be silly!" Markham smiled easily, obviously perfectly at ease with the situation. "Sorry to break into yer confab wiv this 'ere gentlemen, but needs must! Maybe yer wants ter say goodbye to 'im?"

Barnes was about forty-five, with a thin long face and pale skin. He had light-brown hair that receded at the front and curiously pointed ears. He was dressed in a good quality suit with waistcoat, and seemed rather more pleasant in character than I had first imagined.

"Nah!" He spoke disconsolately as if he already knew he was on a loser; his accent was of East London, though not a Cockney.* "He's got some interest in my doings that might be mutually beneficial! What d'yer want to know, then? Yer want ter know something, don't yer? Nobody butt's into my evening's without they want something from me! Gawd, the money I've bin squeezed out of by cryin' Dames and importunate tramps! I could'a been rich otherwise, yer know!"

"Billy, yer bringin' a tear to my eye, straight up!" Markham leaned his elbows on the table in a habit he had and smiled at the man opposite. "These 'ere friends o' mine have something of importance to ask yer. In a nutshell—have yer heard of a mad military man scootin' up an' down the River wiv the intent o' baggin' 'Er 'Ighness!"

"Gawd, Jerry!" Billy was obviously appalled by Markham's forthrightness. "Fer Gawd's sake keep yer voice down; or, better still, keep your mouth shut altogether! Yer can't talk about—him!—here! There's crowds o' his men still 'ere!"

"That's just what I told my pals 'ere." Markham nodded knowingly. "So we thought we'd all come over an' canvas yer support; jest like the Grand Old Man at the hustings!* Billy'll come up trumps, I told 'em, won't yer mate?"

"Oh my sainted Aunt! Okay—okay!" Barnes spoke grudgingly as he pulled a green-spotted cotton handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his brow. "You're obviously intendin' to get us all killed! What'd you want?"

"We just wondered if you can identify any of Col—the man's—gang here!" Gabrielle tried to put a re-assuring tone into her voice. "It is imperative we identify at least one of them! We need to—talk with him— about his leader!"

"Talk with him! I can imagine!" Barnes frowned at the young lady. "What's a Greek lady doing trailing—you know who? Anyway's, there's a variety o' his gang to choose from here tonight. I wouldn't normally have any truck with you, mind; but seein' as I've just been discussin' the very same situation wiv this 'ere bloke, I suppose I'll have to include you all, too!"

For the first time I took a close look at his companion. Although clearly a chimney-sweep; which was evident from the heavy leather jacket with no collar, battered cap, and abundance of soot sticking to every facet of his skin and filthy clothes, there was something about him that made me take a second look. He was hunched in his chair, as if hiding a greater height than he wished to show; and his features, though grimy with ingrained dirt were long and thin. I sat contemplating him for a few seconds but it was not till he looked straight at me that I saw his piercing eyes for the first time and so recognised him.

"My God—Holmes!" I was astonished. I knew from experience he was an expert in disguise: for example the moment he came back into my life just three months previously when he had again been heavily disguised; but his present appearance was a work of art. Even Gabrielle gasped and leaned over to have a closer look.

"Great Aphrodite! Mr Holmes!" She was clearly impressed, and asked her next series of questions eagerly. "I'd never have known you. What are you doing here? Are you any closer to finding out about the Colonel? We've had a bit of luck ourselves!"

"Good evening, Gabrielle! Good evening, Watson!" Holmes sat up straighter and smiled through the artificially applied grime covering his face. "I've just been having a most instructive chat with Barnes, here! I thought it would ease matters if I came in a more informal manner than yourselves! And most interesting it has been! Mr Barnes has been a mine of information! I think we are several steps closer to our prey, now!"

As we all sat together considering this turn in events a shadow suddenly fell across the table and I looked up to see a gigantic man towering over us. He did not have a happy expression on his stubble-covered face!

"Wot's this, Billy?" He spoke with the harsh gutturals of Whitechapel, and cast a red eye over us as he considered the party in front of him. "You were told off last week not to push your face in where it weren't wanted. Hop it, an' take your pals with you!"

I must say I was quite impressed with Barnes at this dramatic juncture. He showed no sign of fear or intimidation at all. Instead he slowly looked up at the large man and considered him in silence for an appreciable time.

"The question is—wot are _you_ doin' here, Henry?" He seemed quite at his ease, though rather tense. "This is my patch; I'll trouble you to take yourself and your rat-pack outta it, right now!"

"Ho! It's a fight you want, eh!" The big man snarled and flexed his arms in the air.

He did not, however, reach the point of action because—in what seemed an instant of time—a figure in dark clothes swept across our line of sight from the left-hand side and took the man down in a beautiful rugby tackle that shook our table as they landed, tangled together, on the sandy stone floor. In an instant all was mayhem in the closely-packed saloon. From a restrained crowd of drinkers and idly chatting customers the room became a scene of pandemonium as everybody appeared to set on everyone else.

The man who had felled Henry so expertly was obviously a bodyguard for Billy. But having seen it begin most of the rest of the males present, and several females, seemed to think their solemn duty lay in expanding the fight to the proportions of a minor war.

I had no idea who were members of Barnes's group; who belonged to the atrocius Colonel's gang; and who owed allegiance elsewhere. All I could tell was that everyone apparently was intent on hitting their nearest neighbour. We had all risen to our feet within the first few seconds, and now I was witness to the most remarkable exhibition of close fighting by a woman I had ever seen.

Gabrielle had been pushed by a man who came up behind her. Before I could come to her aid she leaned slightly forward and kicked out behind with her right foot. Her boot caught the man's shin and he clutched at his leg with a loud cry, just as she whirled round and hit him with a closed fist solidly on his jaw. He careered backwards and fell without another sound.

She then bent quickly and rose again with a wicked narrow-bladed knife in her hand, though she was gripping it backwards and using the hilt as the attacking element. She butted another man in the stomach with this and had the pleasure of seeing him gasp and fold up like a rag doll. Instantly she dived into the heart of the melee and kicked another attacker, who threatened her with his fist, so hard I heard his shrill scream across the saloon. Then she ducked lithely under the swinging arm of another thug; stuck an elbow into his ribs; and swung her fist in such a perfect uppercut he was lifted off his feet, to fall with a discernable thud on the flagstones of the floor. She then went into a crouch from which she rapidly surveyed the field of battle before quickly grasping the elbows of two passing roughs and kicking the feet from under both so expertly their heads cracked together roundly, after which they took no further part in the proceedings. A moment later she was again at my side.

"Hot work!" She grinned with delight; obviously having the time of her life. "Quite a nice fight, eh! Watch out!"

I felt a fist hit my side, pushing me against the edge of a nearby table; then, as I dragged myself up, Gabrielle feinted at the man's face with her dagger; pretended to aim a blow at his chest; and when he put up an arm to protect himself grabbed it and threw him bodily over her shoulder, knocking over another man before he hit the stone floor in a motionless heap. She then performed a curious manoeuvre I had never witnessed before. She spun round on one heel, like a top, with both arms extended and fists clenched. With this surprising move she managed to hit two men in the face, sending them reeling backwards into the crowd with bloody noses.

Suddenly there was a roar and out of the milling throng appeared none other than the giant Henry, obviously out for revenge for those of his pals she had just dealt with. Without turning a hair she stood her ground, watching his eyes intently. She feinted again once or twice, studying his poor attempts to clutch her arms; then she stooped and darted at him. He leaned down to try grabbing her in a bear-hug; but she countered, before he got a grip, by jumping out of her crouch with immense speed and power so close to him she was brushing his waistcoat; using her head to catch him under the chin with immense force. I easily heard the horrible crack over the general commotion and saw his head snap back instantly. His whole body then keeled over and he hit the floor so hard several couples fighting nearby staggered under the impact. Then somebody else was thrown against me and I found my field of view changed to another region of the battle-filled room.

Markham had a shabby-looking costermonger in a head-hold and was passing the time by punching him repeatedly in the face, with apparent delight. On my left Holmes, standing over the body of a man whom he had just knocked down, looked across at me with a re-assuring grin. Barnes himself appeared to have vanished for the moment. I crossed to Holmes, after hitting a rough-looking brute in the face with the butt of my revolver as he attempted to punch me in the stomach. Obviously Wapping Wall was a region where the Marquess of Queensberry Rules had not as yet penetrated.* As I stood by my friend's side Gabrielle pushed her way through the massed warriors; avoiding a man who lashed at her with a broken table-leg by ducking; doing a crouched whirl with extended boot; and, as he crashed to the floor beside her, hitting him a solid blow on the head with her dagger hilt: before jumping to her feet with sweat running down her face; a wide grin; and a dangerous glint in her green eyes which were flashing emerald sparks of fire.

"Come on! Time to see what Xena and Haggard are up to next door!" She then actually laughed with apparent glee as she took the cuff of my coat and dragged me unceremoniously towards the corridor. "Bet she's having just as much fun as we are!"

—OOO—

In the other saloon the first thing that greeted our eyes; after we had cut our way through a line of brawlers filling the corridor, was Haggard laying about him with what at first appeared to be a wooden stick with a ball at the end; but which was later identified by him as a two-foot long Zulu iwisa or knobkerrie, which he had till then concealed under his long pilot jacket. It was certainly doing remarkable damage to his opponents.*

Just as Holmes, Gabrielle and I entered and slipped past Haggard, still intent on his latest victim, I heard an awful scream and out of the smoke-shrouded air descended the tall figure of Xena. She landed with a thump, in a cloud of flying skirts and dust, directly in front of me and turned to give Gabrielle a happy grin.

"Ain't this great!" She gave another blood-curdling whoop as she gazed around searching for her next prey. "Now I feel alive! Having fun, Gabby?"

"Yeah! Over there! To your right!"

"Got him!" Xena glanced back as she darted off again. "I saw some men running up the stairs to the first floor. We need to follow them. Moran might be upstairs!"

Another moment saw everyone, including myself, enveloped in a mass of arms, legs, and bodies in various tattered states of dress, and levels of bloodiness; heaving and pushing against each other as we all fought together in the restricted space. Once more Gabrielle came to the fore with energy, showing a curious grace in her fighting movements. I was knocked off-balance by someone, and instantly she was at my side. Gabrielle grabbed my attacker's arm as he brandished an evil thin-bladed knife; twisted it so hard I heard the man's ulna snap;* then threw the screaming casualty to the floor before darting to one side to avoid the swinging fist of another brutal costermonger. This man was tall, with an absolutely vicious expression on one of the most ravaged and evil faces I had ever seen. But Gabrielle was unfazed; she looked into his crazed eyes for a second then, in a series of surprisingly beautiful moves, hit him in the chest several times with the hilt of her dagger; punched his face with unrelenting ferocity with her fist and, as he staggered back, kicked him with unerring aim. As he screamed in agony she dived forward and hit him with a clean right-hook that laid him out flat on his back in a second. Immediately she was off in search of her next opponent.

Xena then swam back into my line of sight as she dragged no less than three men by their arms and hair across the room. She knee'd one in the stomach; kicked the second in the head, throwing him across the room; and, after straightening up the third, hit him in the face so viciously with a single sharp punch he collapsed as if his bones had suddenly turned to water and leaked out. As she turned away I saw her sneer in disdain, raising the corner of her mouth in a quick movement, as if she was not impressed with the quality of her opponents so far.

The room was a welter of struggling bodies; the atmosphere was thick with tobacco-smoke; and the air was filled with the cries, grunts, howls, and screams of men and women in the throes of one of the most eagerly and intensely fought clashes I had ever experienced since being present at the Battle of Maiwand all those years ago.* When another thug materialised at my side, muttering a threat in filthy language, it was the act of a moment for me to grab a pewter tankard from a nearby table and swing it with all my force in his face. I had the satisfaction of seeing him collapse like a ruptured balloon at my feet, before the wider aspects of the struggle once more caught my attention.

Haggard had given up cracking skulls for the present and was engaged with a big man dressed in canvas trousers and striped shirt; obviously a sailor. Haggard had the tar bent double in a kind of throat-lock with his arm and was calmly kneeing him in the stomach. He paused to grin at me with evident pleasure, then returned to his work. Never be it said an English gentleman couldn't fight dirty with the best, when required!

Another scream rent the air, which I now recognised as Xena's particular war-cry; then both she and Gabrielle were at my side. Gabrielle appeared between two snarling thugs, by the simple expedient of pushing them from behind; kicking each in the trouser area; and giving each, as they turned to face their attacker, a swift hard punch in their faces that knocked both down. She clearly had hidden reservoirs of physical strength I had not till now credited her with.

Xena, for her part, had descended once more from the heavens; obviously being graced with an athletic physique that allowed her to accomplish the most astounding leaps and jumps, even in her long skirt. Something her companion was apparently well used to.

"Dr Watson—Mr Haggard—some fight, eh!" Xena's face gleamed with sweat, but no sign of exhaustion was apparent in her voice. "Where's Holmes? Ah, there he is!"

She disappeared into the horde of fighters, to re-emerge with her arm clutching Holmes's shoulder. He also seemed to be quite enjoying the situation, judging from the fact I could see his knuckles were covered in blood.

"Right! I think we need to rescue Markham from the other saloon and climb to the first floor!" Xena glanced at Gabrielle, then the rest of us, as she paused to take deep lungfulls of air. "I think there may be some high-up gang-leaders hiding upstairs! Ya' all with me?"

"Damn right, Xena!" Gabrielle laughed loudly, just as she back-kicked another thug in the stomach who was coming up behind her; though how she knew he was there, I don't know. "Gods! I need some more exercise, anyway! I'm just beginning to enjoy this!"

As she spoke, and we headed towards the door, we all suddenly again heard that self-same deep reverberating laugh that had caught my attention earlier coming now from the corridor outside. I was one of the first through into the crammed passageway and saw at the centre of the fight amongst the scuffling thugs, towering head and shoulders over most of them, a tall bearded dark-featured man with black hair. He was dressed in strange, old-fashioned, leather jerkin and trousers and seemed to be having as much fun engaging in the fight as Xena or Gabrielle. Except that he was wielding a gleaming sword over his head: a sword that had streaks of blood flowing from its blade!

—OOO—

**Notes—**

1. Costermonger—someone who sells fruit and vegetables from a street-cart. Though they can also sell other commodities.

2. Kibosh—to finish something off, put an end to it, decisively dispose of it, or reject it.

3. Wotcher—19th & early 20th century London slang version of an old English greeting 'What cheer!'.

4. Bear-leader—was a man who, in the 18th & 19th centuries, acted as guide, tutor, guardian, to young gentlemen on the European Grand Tour. So could also be applied to a modern tour-guide.

5. Cockney—it is said that a true Cockney must be born within hearing of 'Bow Bells'. That is, St Mary-le-Bow Church in Cheapside, just East of St Paul's Cathedral.

6. Grand Old Man, or G.O.M.—William Ewart Gladstone (1809-1898). Politician who served four times as Prime Minister of Great Britain at different periods between 1868 to 1894.

7. Queensberry Rules—this boxing code was written by John Graham Chambers and published in 1867 as 'the Queensberry Rules for the sport of boxing', after being publicly endorsed by John Douglas, 9th Marquess of Queensberry.

8. Iwisa—or knobkerrie. A 24-inch long wooden club with a carved rounded ball at the end, used as a deadly weapon by the Zulu's.

9. Ulna—one of the two long bones of the forearm. The other being the radius.

10. Battle of Maiwand—July, 1880. Afghanistan. One of the principal battles of the 2nd Anglo-Afghan War. Watson sustained a rifle-bullet wound there.

—OOO—

This is such a grand battle that, having finally brought everyone into action, I need to extend the combat into the next chapter; in order to fully describe its climax, and what takes place afterwards on the river! There isn't going to be much left of the poor old 'Prospect', knowing Xena!

—OOO—


	9. The Battle of Whitby2

—OOO—

**Chapter 9.**

'**The Battle of Whitby—2'**

"Ares!"

It was Gabrielle who shouted this curious name amidst the reeling throng of fighters confined, somewhat tightly, in the narrow passage of the tavern. The front door lay to our left, while the passage ended in a flight of stairs leading up to the first floor a few yards to our right. Although it was packed with a mass of shouting, cursing, battling men and women the person who stood head and shoulders above everyone else was remarkable for his obvious delight in the fight on hand, and also his expertise in close combat. Although there was blood on the blade of the short sword he wielded above his head this was not, apparently, from any deep mortal wounds he had been inflicting; but rather from the way he had been using the flat of the blade and the hilt to whack people's heads! This was a man who clearly revelled in war and knew a good fight when he saw one!

"Hey, Xena, get upstairs!" His voice was deep and richly vibrant. "He's there! But watch out; he's armed!"

"Watch'a doing with that toothpick?" Xena's reply seemed sarcastic; as if she knew the man well. "Put a bit of effort inta it!"

"Can't!" He smiled ruefully, before bashing his fist into a nearby man's face; sending him reeling. "Rules! Destiny! Fate, an' all that! Not allowed to kill anyone here, dammit!"

"Bummer!" Xena seemed relaxed with the situation, which was rapidly exceeding _my_ understanding. "Well, try harder! Those fella's you're hittin' ain't staying down!"

As she spoke the giant form of the indomitable Henry once more appeared; sending men and women flying in every direction as he advanced inexorably along the tight corridor. In seconds he was face to face with the other big warrior. The leather-clad man, whom Gabrielle had addressed as '_Ares_' took one look and crashed his sword hilt into the man's face. Henry staggered back a pace; swept a hand over his jaw contemptuously; looked from his slightly blood-stained fingers to his opponent with an evil light in his blood-shot eye; then charged with a terrific bellow of rage, grabbing his sword-wielding foe round the neck with both fists. In an instant they were lost among the throng as a wave of people staggered against us in the narrow confines of the corridor.

"The other saloon!" Xena shouted over the noise. "Markham's still there! Gabrielle, you take everyone and find him! I'm heading upstairs!"

"Watch out, Xena!" Gabrielle pushed a man out of her way by tripping him with a well-placed boot, then casually using his chest as a doormat as she jumped across to the door of the saloon; with myself, Haggard and Holmes in hot pursuit.

Inside the room, which was still the scene of a close-fought battle between many lusty antagonists, Billy Barnes had re-appeared. He was engaged with a short barrel-chested man with scraggy grey hair. This man was apparently trying to kick Barnes in the lower chest, without much success; while Billy was happily pounding the man's left ear with his closed fist. A few yards away Markham was still in his element, standing face to face with a man some six inches taller and much heavier. But Markham clearly had the advantage, with his knowledge of boxing techniques.

Markham stood in front of his opponent with both fists raised, protecting his face. He kept the man at a distance with an extended right-hand delivering a constant series of short taps to the man's face, while Markham's left fist was close to his chest; obviously held in reserve for the perfect moment. This came as we watched. The taller man snarled and dropped his defence to swing wildly with his right hand. Markham stepped forward and his left fist shot out like a steam-piston, taking the red-haired man solidly on the point of the jaw. He staggered back and fell like a tree in the forest, without a murmur, crashing onto the stone floor in a cloud of sawdust. Markham looked over at us and grinned.

"Easy pickings! He ain't got no style!" He crossed to stand by Gabrielle's side. "Some fight, eh! Everyone orlright?"

"Having a great time!" Gabrielle showed her teeth in her turn, as she pushed another encroaching opponent out of her way unceremoniously, with an elbow in his ribs. "Come on! Xena wants us all upstairs! Moran might still be there! If you see a tall leather-clad man with a sword; he's on our side, Markham!"

"Right yer are, ma'am!" He seemed perfectly at ease, and indeed happy, with present circumstances. "Everybody else—fair game! Got it! Gawd, that's a bloody good club you've got there, Mr 'aggard! I want one o' those!"

It actually took us some minutes to extricate ourselves from the throng in the saloon and fight our way back to the stairs. The clientele of the '_Prospect of Whitby_' were obviously old hands at bar-room brawls, and meant to have their money's worth from this evening's events!

With Holmes at my side once again we all finally reached the stairs and climbed them at a run. On the upper floor there was a small hall with two doors leading off. Gabrielle grabbed the handle of the left-hand door and pulled it open. Instantly a crowd of men careered out, breaking through our group like a ball through skittles as they fought amongst themselves. I myself was knocked to the floor, but was swiftly rescued by Holmes reaching a hand to grasp my shoulder and pull me up. We all entered the room together and found ourselves in a long saloon. The tavern was actually two buildings built against each other; one immediately in front of the other, with the saloons running right through both, from end to end. At the far end of this long room was the famous bow-window which gave a wide view over the Thames. Standing in front of this window, and silhouetted by lamps outside, was a tall frock-coated figure. Beside him, and threatening him with a dagger which glinted evilly in the soft light, stood Xena. Colonel Moran appeared to have been disturbed before he could arm himself, and was clearly at a disadvantage; judging from the black scowl he directed at the tall woman by his side.

"So, we finally get ta' have a chat; ya slimy rat!" Xena sneered at her adversary with ill-concealed contempt. "Looks like your days of wine and roses are over, at last!"

Before any of us could do or say anything further there was a loud rumbling on the stairs outside; some deep growls of anger and sounds of bodies being thrown aside as if a tropical storm had arrived, and the door burst open to reveal the tall heavy figure of Henry once again; bloody, but all too obviously unbowed!

"Aaargh!" —was the greeting he howled at the whole audience before him; apparently now in a rage so deep and potent friend and foe were as one in his blood-shot eyes. Even Xena turned to stare at the apparition in disbelief. Only Gabrielle was unfazed.

"Demeter, Penthesilea, and Artemis! _What_ does it take to keep _you_ down?" She lowered her brows and advanced on the mighty giant, as if he were merely a mouse at her feet. "What happened to Ares? The big bloke with the sword!"

"He vanished!" Henry stared at the small-framed blonde girl in front of him as if he were hypnotised by the glittering sparks emanating from her green eyes. "One moment 'e 'ad me under 'is arm, tryin' ter rip me 'ead off; the next 'e weren't there anymore! Must'a figured I were too much fer 'im an' run fer cover, the cowardly dog!"

"Go away!" Gabrielle spoke slowly and calmly, but with infinite deliberation.

"Go ter 'ell!" Henry had obviously decided to astronomically underestimate his female challenger, giving a wave of his hand as if trying to swat a fly as he advanced on her.

Gabrielle ducked low; punched him in the lower gut; rose to her full height and punched him again on the chin with swinging blows of each closed fist; then stepped back and kicked him so solidly in the stomach he bowed in two with a gasp.

On raising himself painfully upright again it was plain to see that intelligence and understanding; probably never close companions of his, had deserted him altogether: to be replaced by what can only be called insane rage! He roared like a bull; swept both arms out, and ran at the young woman with murder in his eyes.

Gabrielle turned and darted towards the rear of the long saloon. We were already some way into the room so she had only a few paces to go till the bow-window faced her, across a low oak table. Henry was not far behind, and gaining rapidly. She turned, grasped the edge of the table with her hands then, as Henry reached her, lay back on the table-top and raised her booted feet.

Henry's impetus was so strong he ran straight onto her boots, which caught him in the lower stomach. Gabrielle gave a cry as she pushed up hard and straightened her legs. With an almost poetic grace Henry's huge form sailed over her body high in the air and went through the glass of the bow-window with a splintering explosion.

There was an appallingly long silence before we all heard a loud crash as Henry came to earth once more outside on the foreshore, some twenty feet below. Gabrielle gracefully jumped to her feet, as if not in the slightest disturbed by her acrobatic escapade, and went to lean out the shattered remnants of the window.

"He's fallen on a tarpaulin-covered rowboat drawn up on the shingle!" She glanced back at us as she relayed the news. "He's flailing around with his arms, and swearing something awful! Figure he'll be OK in a while! Xena, where's Moran?"

We all hurriedly glanced about the room, still filled with a variety of skirmishing groups; though who was who it was impossible to say.

"Sh— !" Xena used a rather vulgar expression in her disgust at losing track of the arch-villain. She looked across the heads of those in the room, searching for her quarry. "Anyone see where he went?"

"That door over on the left!" Markham called out, pointing. "I think I saw him dart through it just as Henry went fer Miss Gabrielle!"

Xena had the door open in an instant and we all saw a winding flight of narrow stairs concealed behind it. But before Xena could lead the way Holmes shouted from his position at the broken window.

"Too late! He's on the foreshore! I see him in the lamplight!"

"Do we follow him down the stairs?" I asked this question of no-one in particular, but Gabrielle replied instantly.

"No!" She shook her head with certainty. "He'll probably have locked or blocked the lower door! Is there an outside route to the shore?"

"Yes!" Holmes spoke again, as he headed for the door to the main staircase. "Follow me! We can go down Pelican Stairs. They're right next to the tavern, outside. We may still have a chance!"

—OOO—

It was necessary to fight our way through the still combative crowds milling about the corridor and saloons; but there was a perceptible lessening of interest amongst those engaged in the general struggle and it was clear that, as everyone's energy was waning, the fight would not last much longer.

In the dark of the late evening; it now being somewhat past midnight, we all finally struggled out of the now rather worse for wear '_Prospect of Whitby_', following Holmes to the left along the front of the tavern. A few yards brought us to the corner of the building. Here there was a black space, on the other side of which was a builder's yard of some description. Peering more closely into the heart of this darkness I saw a row of narrow wooden stairs descending at a steep angle down the side of the tavern. Holmes intrepidly led the way, followed by Xena and Gabrielle: Markham, Haggard, and I bringing up the rearguard.

Under my boots I suddenly felt the crunch of gravel and pebbles as I stepped out on a narrow strip of Thames foreshore. Over on our left, shaded by the massive bulk of the tavern, lay the old rowboat on top of which Henry had come to rest. His massive form was easily seen lying supine and unconscious, like a beached whale, where he had finally given up the ghost and retired to the Land of Nod for the duration. Just as I came up with the rest of our group we heard the gasping and coughing of a small steam-engine choking itself into life and a low dark shadow detached itself from the general gloom and headed out into the middle of the river.

"Damnation!" Xena again took refuge in coarse language; a habit that was common, I think, to both women in a crisis! "He's gettin' away again! Is there a boat around?"

Gabrielle dashed to the edge of the oily black water and, putting a finger to her lips, gave a loud whistle.

"Lestrade! Lights! Lights!" Her voice carried over the water with an intensity which I actually felt stabbing into my own brain like a knife!

In answer to her cry there came a cacophony of noise from further out on the river; another black shadow sailed closer in towards us, revealing itself as a light launch, and a powerful searchlight opened up; blinding us all as it shone in our faces like a hundred suns!

"Great Balls of Fire!" Gabrielle was furious, waving her arms in disgust. "Not us, you idiot! That boat going up-river! Keep the beam on _it_!"

—OOO—

In the next few minutes there was, I must admit, some confusion as we all waded in the water at the river's edge, while the launch came as close in as it could to pick us up. There were many wet shoes; a lot of frightful cursing; and some staggering around as one person bumped into another in our attempts to climb over the bulwarks of the boat. But finally we all stood on the deck, with the tall figure of the Scotland Yard detective at our side; looking somewhat sheepish.

"When Xena asked you to get a boat, Mr Lestrade, I thought the London Police Force could afford something bigger than this!" Gabrielle was still a little snappish, as she knelt to wring the hem of her skirt dry, from where she had stumbled in her effort to jump aboard the vessel.

"This is your ordinary River Police launch, madam!" Lestrade tried to fall back on tradition, not particularly successfully. "In short, it's all we've got. Which way did you say the damned bast—the old reprobate—went?"

"Up-river, Lestrade." Holmes was the only one present still commanding a level of calmness in his voice. "I think he may have a larger boat ready as a getaway, waiting with steam up, in the Pool!"

"Can we stop him?" Xena's voice was icily calm now, but held depths of hatred in its tone.

"That depends, ma'am." Lestrade shook his head in the gloom, which was only slightly dispersed by a few oil lamps on the small vessel. "We can't shoot at him, here in the River. And if he gets onto a bigger boat we may need to follow him out to the Estuary!"

"Gods! Surely there's something more than that we can do!" Haggard spoke testily, still gasping for breath after his late exertions. "This is London, after all! And he's got his sights set firmly on the Queen, dammit!"

"Well, there's the Navy!" Lestrade spoke with a certain complacency, as if he knew something of importance we did not.

"The Navy?" Gabrielle turned to look at the man with a steely gaze. "Come on, tell us! What sorta evil subterfuge are you up to?"

"I wouldn't precisely call it that, Miss Gabrielle!" The Inspector looked at his audience with deep satisfaction. "It's just that when someone asked for a boat on the River—was it you, Miss Athenopolos?—I thought that present circumstances allowed the inclusion of the Armed Forces! To wit, a Navy Torpedo-Destroyer, which by chance happens to be moored at the Greenwich Naval College just down-river! I've given orders for it to lay across the River at Greenwich Reach! It's got a small cannon; carbines; about thirty marines; and it blocks the River from shore to shore!"

"And torpedoes!" Holmes offered quietly.

"Just so, sir!" Lestrade nodded. "Though I shouldn't rely on them!"

"Why not?" Gabrielle looked disappointed. "I want to see one of those things blow something up!"

"Not here in the River, you won't, ma'am!" Lestrade was adamant, shaking his head knowledgeably.

"Why not?" Xena asked, in her turn.

"I think I can answer that." Haggard stepped up to the rail of the boat as we headed up-river. "The River's too shallow! A torpedo needs about forty or fifty feet of depth to operate just after it's fired! The River's only about thirty-five feet deep!"

"Oh Sh—!" Xena snarled the epithet this time.

"Oh Bu—!" What Gabrielle said was even more vulgar, and both Holmes and I raised our eyebrows.

As our boat continued its course we left the lamplit wreck of the battered '_Prospect of Whitby_' behind in a haze of dust, broken glass, and several visible bodies. The search-light mounted on Lestrade's small but powerful launch meanwhile smoothly wandered across the wide channel as we pursued the dimly seen silhouette of our prey just visible in the far distance. I found myself thinking, in the surrounding stygian darkness, that the climax of this sorry affair might not be far distant. Were we on the point of finally apprehending Colonel Moran, and preventing one of the worst tragedies of our modern age! I think everyone on the boat beside me felt something of the tenseness of this drama as our vessel chugged on through the dark night: Colonel Moran's presence almost like a phantom ahead of us as we sailed towards Tower Bridge!

—OOO—

No Notes in this chapter—just action! In **Chapter 10** the necessity to leave London in pursuit of the elusive Colonel becomes apparent!

—OOO—


	10. A Pool of Uncertainty

—OOO—

**Chapter 10.**

'**A Pool of Uncertainty'**

The Police launch was steam-driven, with an officer manning a small wheel in the bows while a short funnel just behind him sent billows of thick oily smoke into the night sky: much of which immediately found its way back to the deck all round us as we stood on the crowded rocking vessel. The boat was by no means large, and our group took up all the available space; the deck being around seven feet wide and only about three feet above water-level, while the whole vessel was barely 25 feet long. 7 knots appeared to be its top speed; and that only with a following wind, which we didn't at the moment have. Ahead of the steersman crouched another police-officer, behind the heavy bulk of the search-light. This was electrically powered by a small dynamo and sent a piercing beam well ahead of the boat, lighting up the brown river-water and the multitude of boats, ships and wharves and jetties all along both banks. Of our quarry we only caught faint shadowy glimpses, and these failed altogether after a few minutes when it became obvious Colonel Moran's boat was far faster than Lestrade's official vessel.

"This won't do at all, Lestrade!" Holmes was frustrated with the prospect of losing his prey at this late stage. "He'll be in the Pool well ahead of us; and what hope can we have then?"*

"Can't go any faster, sir." Lestrade shook his head despondently in the darkness. "We have to dodge all these other craft lying in the Reach. No point in ramming a steamer!"

What he said was true enough. As we looked about us in the murk we could see craft of every possible description anchored all round. Everything from barges; of which there seemed to be an unholy multitude, to the high dark sides of ocean cargo-ships towering over us as we passed cautiously by. And this only worsened when we veered to our right, as the River bent slightly in its course, and came into the Lower Pool itself.

Bermondsey was on our left hand, with Wapping continuing along on our right. The River visibly widened here to allow for the many wharves where ships from all corners of the globe were moored in huge numbers; masts and funnels rising into the sky like a forest. At least such would be the case if we could only have seen them in the pitch dark night.

We passed Wapping Old Stairs on our right-hand side and were in the Pool proper, with ships, boats, barges, yachts, and unidentifiable craft of all sorts in their hundreds surrounding us; reaching along both banks as far as the eye could see.

Our eyes could see rather further than usual in fact because, in the far distance, the silhouette of the nearly completed Tower Bridge; with its two massive towers, was resplendently illuminated by scores of gas lamps as the workers pursued night-work in advance of its imminent opening some weeks away. Suddenly, as we all looked at this impressive sight, a tug with all steam up and a bow wave that would have done credit to a P & O liner shot across directly in front of us.* The shouts and execrations as it passed on our left side, almost scraping the London River Police paintwork, were violent detailed and democratic in their general coverage. If a Thames tugboat Captain knew nothing else, he knew how to swear!

"That's enough, sergeant!" Lestrade gave up the chase with an ill grace, speaking to the officer in charge of the vessel. "Tell your helmsman to stop here. We've lost the bugg—blighter, amongst all this clutter. He could be anywhere by now. Gods, what are all these boats doing at this time of night? It must be almost one-thirty in the morning!"

"London never sleeps, Inspector!" Holmes replied with an ironic note in his voice. "The hub of the Empire must go on, whatever else occurs!"

"That's as may be." Lestrade looked miserably around as he eased his round-topped bowler. "Where d'you suppose Moran is now?"

"Could be on one of these Liners or cargo-ships." Xena indicated the shadowy mass of shipping that seemed, from our low view-point, like a surrounding maze. "Or one of these sailing-barques; or maybe lying low beneath a tarpaulin on any of a thousand barges moored in the next half-mile! Anyway, we've lost him—again!"

"And that's something we have to stop doing!" Gabrielle gave us all a moody glance as she stood beside her friend, fair hair blowing in the chill early morning breeze. "We've let him slip through our fingers far too much lately!"

"Thank you, ma'am!" Lestrade's voice held a note of barely suppressed annoyance. "I am aware of that!"

"I have a suspicion he may have sneaked ashore." Holmes carefully examined both shores, as far as either could be seen through the darkness and ranked motionless hulls tied up everywhere. "I don't think he means to go down-river after all. He far prefers skulking in some shadowy corner, where he can still operate in secrecy!"

"So, what's the next step?" Haggard brought a disciplined outlook to bear on the problem, as he nonchalantly twirled the short wooden knobkerrie which he had managed to retain possession of through-out all the night's action.

"The next step is a conference at the Diogenes Club, I think." Holmes spoke quietly but firmly. "What is wanted is a serious debate about our aims and accomplishments to date. And anyway, Haggard, Inspector Lestrade appears to be examining that remarkable cudgel of yours with an eye as to whether or not it may be a proscribed weapon. Perhaps a rest and a cup of tea will do us all good; after what has been a somewhat energetic evening!

—OOO—

In the Diogenes Club an air of mouldering decay; the usual atmosphere of the place, enveloped us as we entered and were led upstairs to a private room where Mycroft sat in solitary splendour awaiting our arrival.

Mycroft himself was by no means a happy man! Having been summoned from a warm and comfortable bed, at an ungodly hour of the night, sweetness and light were not the sentiments most in evidence on his rotund but pale features.* We all settled ourselves round another long oak table, with tea and sandwiches placed before us, and began a survey of our past actions.

"We gotta get a real grip on this scumbag!" Xena's choice of words cut to the heart of the matter. "We've been letting him run the chase on his own terms. That's gotta stop right now!"

"This last fight was just stupid!" Gabrielle hunched forward, with her arms on the table. "He knew we'd show up at the '_Prospect_', and was ready for us. We'll never catch him like this. We could be chasing him all over London for the next month without success. When's the Queen's appointment in the Northern city, by the way?"

"Manchester, the 21st May." Mycroft spoke shortly. "As this is now the 15th May, that gives us just six days leeway."

"I was looking at a map," Gabrielle frowned at Mycroft. "and as far as I could see this Manchester place is way inland. I mean 5 or 6 parasangs! What's all this talk I hear about ships being able to anchor there?"

"They built a canal, Gabrielle." Xena spoke softly, though with a slightly disparaging tone and a raise of her eyebrows.

"Would have'ta be a damn deep and long canal, Xena!" Gabrielle was unimpressed; in fact unbelieving of this fact.

"It is, darling!"

"It is, Miss Gabrielle." Mycroft too lent his authority to the discussion. "It actually opened to traffic in January of this year. The Queen's visit is purely of a ceremonial nature, you understand. The canal is 36 miles long; that would be about 12 of your parasangs, madam! Just over 25 feet deep and wide enough to take ocean-going cargo-steamers. A massive undertaking, and a scientific wonder of our age! There will be hundreds of thousands of people there to witness the Queen officially open the concern."

"Oh, well—in that case!" Gabrielle looked at her hands, after glancing at her friend who smiled back at her.

"There is another point of interest!" Mycroft's tone was stern and uncompromising as he addressed the two ladies. "I have had reports of some fellow—a tall man answering to the name of '_Ares_'—being present at this night's activities in Wapping? Putting on one side the fact that the last thing we need in this affair is a supposed rampaging Greek God, I would be interested in your explanation for the presence of this secretive individual. Whom you both appear to know!"

"He's a friend—an old friend!" Xena took up the challenge of quelling Mycroft's anger. "He came with us from Greece—he's working undercover for us. Don't worry about him, he can be quite discreet—when he puts his mind to it!"

"Undercover?" Haggard's question echoed the interest of the other men at the table.

"In hiding." Gabrielle explained. "Trying to mix in with ordinary people without being found out."

"You mean like a detective, in plain clothes?" Lestrade nodded understandingly. "I have to tell you, though, a police officer from Greece has no authority in this country."

"Just so, just so!" Mycroft obviously felt it was time to address the important issues. "Sherlock, what are your views on the situation?"

My friend looked all round the table at each person in turn. Holmes had a penetrating eye and could hold the attention of an audience with little effort. Such was the case that night. I sat by Holmes's side; while Mycroft took the head of the table. Opposite sat Inspector Lestrade and Haggard; while on my right sat Gabrielle, with Xena opposite her. Markham, no doubt feeling a trifle out of his normal station, sat by Gabrielle's side: though he was making up for any slight embarrassment by tucking into the tea and beef sandwiches like a starving man.

"So far we have been chasing our fox." Holmes leaned forward, elbows on the oak table and chin resting on folded hands. "As Miss Xena said, we need a new direction. We have to stop chasing, and discover his hiding-place instead. There we can run him to ground and capture him."

"We tried that in Belsize Park." Gabrielle was unconvinced. "Look where that got us. A 'bang' heard across the whole of North London!"

"I admit our attempts so far have suffered from—ah, a lack of understanding as to the intellect of our quarry." Holmes nodded without rancour. "But I feel I—_we_—have the measure of our man now. In many ways he can be regarded as quite equal to his unmourned leader."

"That's saying a great deal." I felt impelled to interject, knowing the shocking effect Professor Moriarty's stratagems had accomplished on my friend's welfare.*

"Ah, Watson! Always sympathetic in a dangerous situation." Holmes looked at me with a light in his eye which, I admit, affected me deeply. "I fear I have missed the solid comfort of your presence over the last three years. It is a delight to be in your company again. But as to Moran—we need to establish at least one of two facts. First—where is his actual head-quarters here in London? Second—where does he intend to establish himself in the neighbourhood of Manchester in the coming days?"

"Are either of these achievable?" Haggard shook his head as he looked round the table. "On the first we have had less than good luck. In fact it's been a disaster so far! And how can we possibly discover one house in the Manchester area among thousands which may be rented or leased over the coming days for the Grand Ceremony?"

"We might have better luck by focussing not on the destination—but the means of transport to reach it!" Mycroft took a bite from a sandwich in an absent-minded manner as he contemplated the problem. "After all, we know how sprawling Manchester is—but there is only _one_ truly practical route from London. The LNWR from Euston!"*

"What trains run daily to Manchester?" I put the question generally to those at the table. Haggard rose and crossed to a large glass-fronted bookcase against the wall which contained several thick red-bound books.

"Let's see!" He searched through the displayed works and selected one with this year's date, then returned to his seat and spread the opened volume of '_Bradshaw's Railway Guide_' on the table.* After a minute's contemplation he looked up from his labours. "Here it is. According to '_Bradshaw'_ there are three services daily during the week; with four on Saturday, and only one on Sunday."

"We must not forget that the Company will be putting on many extra Specials to cope with those travelling to see the ceremony." Holmes mused on the dilemma. "And the time-tabled services will probably have been extended. We may be looking at anything from 6 to 16 services each day from now till the 21st."

"I could flood Euston with officers." Lestrade scratched his chin in thought. "I mean, it will only be one or two platforms to cover. Of course, it depends on the crowds, and the number of carriages of the trains! And he might well be in disguise."

"Moran is a tall man—but even tall men can hide!" Xena sneered as she thought about the measures needed. "I've found that if someone wants to accomplish their aim—I mean, really wants to!—then generally they succeed."

"Well, at least we have some fine minds to muster in defence against him." Mycroft sat back in his chair and sipped at his tea. "You, Mr Haggard, are an excellent big-game hunter and politician. Of Sherlock and Dr Watson nothing need be said! And you ladies appear to have settled into your, no doubt strange, surroundings with admirable aplomb!"

"Yeah, we're gettin' to know the lie of the land!" Xena smiled in that curiously disturbing way she had.

"And even Markham, here, is a blessing in disguise!" Mycroft smiled down the table at the slightly bruised, but now comfortable, man.

"Er—!" Markham had just pushed his plate aside and was searching in a pocket for something; an act which he gave up with a start.

"Oh, by all means gentlemen, smoke if you please!" Mycroft nodded in agreement. "Like Markham I find a post-prandial cigar the best help to digestion. Even at this time of night—or should that be morning? Ha—ha!"

Soon, with the ladies permission, we had all mostly taken out pipes or cigars and were puffing away happily; filling the air with aromatic scents. Far from disapproving the ladies sat back and watched our performance with great interest; almost as if they had not previously witnessed the act of smoking!

"Markham, how did you cope with the debacle at the '_Prospect_'?" Mycroft addressed the ex-pugilist with surprising ease of manner; as if he knew him.

"Ah, sir, it weren't anything but a rowdy brawl." He shook his close-cropped head in disgust at the memory. "Not what you could call a professional meeting at all. No finesse, sir. No class. No bottom! It were like takin' candy from a child. The ladies did surprisin' well, mind yer. I ain't never seen some o' those moves before. And Miss Gabrielle here—she just went an' kicked 'Bermondsey' Henry through a glass winder, right into the River! Gawd, what a sight! He won't half be mad when he wakes up!"

"Ha! You seem to find action wherever you go, Markham." Mycroft smiled, with something of a knowing wink to his brother. "On the several occasions you have, er, given your assistance to me I have had no complaints. I think it a good thing you are part of the company in the present crisis."

At this, clearly well-meant, compliment I saw Markham blush for the one and only time in what would later turn out to be a long acquaintance. Obviously he had been in the employ of Mycroft before, perhaps on those secret Government matters that even Sherlock himself was often barred from knowing anything of. I saw Holmes looking at Markham with interest; as if seeing the shabby colourful character in a new light for the first time.

"Well, sir, it surely beats doing the shell game fer a livin'."* Markham sniggered as he spoke. "I almost thought o' tryin' that wiv Miss Gabrielle here, a couple o' days ago. But I changed me mind. Good job, too. I think she'd a' torn my 'ead orf!"

"I know that game." Gabrielle smiled widely; but with something of intent in her expression, all the same. "I would'a taken you for every penny you've ever earned, Markham. I grew up on the streets, too, y'know!"

"Well, ladies and gentlemen," Mycroft rose ponderously from his chair. "it would appear the next rendezvous will be under Euston Arch;* shall we say at 3pm tomorrow afternoon? I shall be organising matters from the Foreign Office in Whitehall, with Sherlock in charge of the purely physical side of affairs. It will at least give you all some hours to rest. Till then."

—OOO—

A few minutes later we all stood on the rainy pavement of Pall Mall while a trio of vehicles, from the nearby cab-stand, rolled up at Sherlock's piercing whistle. It was now around two-thirty in the morning and the shadows were thick and impenetrable on the otherwise empty street-scene. It was almost like a work of Atkinson Grimshaw come to life, I found myself thinking, as we all waited in a huddled group.*

"Any cabman will take you to Euston tomorrow afternoon, Miss Xena." Sherlock reassured the ladies as we made our temporary goodbyes. "You will feel better after a few hours sleep—I know I shall! Don't worry about Moran trying to attack your residence with his thugs. I think he has far more important matters to occupy him now. Till tomorrow afternoon, then."

"We could use some shut-eye." Xena nodded in agreement. "I like knocking people's heads together—but it's a tiring game to play. What about you, Gabrielle?"

"Same here, Xena." The young fair-haired woman seemed almost happy as Xena gave her a hand into their cab. "I had a beautiful time tonight, darling. Can we do it again, sometime? Har—har!"

"Silly girl!" Xena closed the cab door, and Holmes and I watched as it disappeared into the gloom.

"I'll meet you all at Euston tomorrow, then." Haggard gave us a broad smile as he climbed into another cab. "Been quite a night! Feel like a character in one of me own novels. Goodnight!"

Holmes paused as I entered our own cab first; then clambered quickly in behind, out of the cold night air.

"221b Baker St. As fast as you like!" Sherlock called up to the driver, before settling back on the seat. "Well, Watson, what do you make of it all?"

"Holmes, those two women fascinate me. Especially Gabrielle!" I sat back and considered the evening behind us. "We go to a dangerous location; the women turn into Valkyrie's; we have a set-to with Moran and his thugs; and, after an awe-inspiring melee, absolutely nothing of worth is achieved! I don't know what to think of it all!"

"A somewhat pessimistic outlook, but only natural in the circumstances." Sherlock nodded in the darkness of the cab. "What do you make of the man '_Ares_', then?"

"Damn silly name, if you ask me, Holmes!" I was not in a mood to be generous, feeling tired and curiously hungry; the Diogenes Club beef sandwiches having not fulfilled their purpose in my case. "Heavy-set blighter; barging in where he's not wanted; knocking people's heads together; for what reason, eh? You'd think the ladies would have more sense than to employ him!"

"There is something else about that man, Watson." Holmes's voice had taken on a quiet tone which always spoke of his deep attention to some aspect of the case before him. "He was at Belsize Park, also, you will recall—if only for a brief moment! It is not so much his presence at certain scenes, including tonight, but rather the manner of his leaving them that intrigues me."*

"I did not see—I don't think anyone saw—how he managed to leave Belsize, or the '_Prospect_'. Slippery fellow, Holmes!" I grunted in disgust. "I still hardly know whether he is actually on our side or not!"

Some minutes passed, as we circumvented the dark streets. Our cab seeming to be almost the only reflection of humanity abroad at this time of night, as the horses clattered over the cold rainswept cobbles. Eventually my friend broke the comfortable silence; where, I must admit, I had nearly fallen asleep on the gently rocking seat.

"Yes, Watson." Holmes rested his chin on his folded hands as he reflected on the night's activities. "There is something about our Mr '_Ares_' that almost makes my blood run cold! But let us get some rest, and tomorrow we shall be stronger for it. Come, Watson, here we are at Baker St. After you!"

—OOO—

**Notes: — **

1. The Pool. Running from Tower Bridge for approximately a mile downstream to Rotherhithe. The river here was, and is, lined with numerous wharves, jetties, and Stairs where ships berthed in huge numbers; particularly those too large to venture further up-river.

2. P&O. 'Peninsular and Oriental Steam Navigation Company'. Founded in 1837.

3. 'Sweetness and light'. An English idiom that indicates a person's friendliness and courtesy. See Matthew Arnold's 1869 essay '_Culture and Anarchy_'.

4. After Holmes disappeared at the Reichenbach Falls in 1891, fighting Professor Moriarty, he was not heard from for three years; till he re-appeared in early 1894 in London. See '_The Empty House_'.

5. LNWR. 'London and North Western Railway'. Its trains served Wales and the North-Western side of England. One of several privately owned railway companies established across Britain.

6. Euston Station. Owned and built by the above Company. Their major London terminus.

7. '_Bradshaw's Railway Guide_'. This series of timetables was first published in 1841 by George Bradshaw. The eight page edition of 1841 had grown to 32 pages by 1845, and to 946 pages by 1898. It ceased publication in 1961. See Wiki.

8. Shell Game. This used three small containers, or cups, and a pea or other small item. The idea was to bet on which cup the pea was under, after the cups had been moved around. It was all down to sleight of hand and the customer never stood a chance of success when faced by a really good operator.

9. Euston Arch. The Railway station had an imposing Roman Classical portico-entrance of heavy majesty. A famous meeting-place for all Londoners, it was demolished in 1961.

10. Atkinson Grimshaw (1836-1893). He was an English painter known for his city night scenes and landscapes. Mostly showing a poetic use of Moonlight and dark shadows.

11. Manner of leaving. '_Nothing in his life - Became him like the leaving it._' Shakespeare. 'Macbeth', Act 1, Scene 4. Spoken about the Thane of Cawdor.

—OOO—

In **Chapter 11** we visit Euston! Smoke, oil, dirt, crowds, dangerous steam engines, and corridor-less carriages!

—OOO—


	11. And All Points NorthWest

—OOO**—**

**Chapter 11.**

'—**And All Points North-West'**

The following afternoon outside the entrance to Euston Railway Terminus our Hansom cabs had just pulled away, leaving us all standing contemplating the massively towering stone gateway in the hazy afternoon light. For Holmes and I the journey had been relatively straightforward; simply traversing the Marylebone Road, skirting the Southern border of Regents Park, and then going along Euston Road. For the Greek ladies it had been an even shorter trek as their rooms, in Malet Street behind the British Museum, were virtually only round the corner from the Terminus which lay some half mile North of them. Haggard had travelled somewhat further, he being domiciled for the moment at the Cadogan Hotel* in Sloane Street, Kensington*; just South of Hyde Park.

"Reminds me of home!" Xena looked up at the imposing columns of the portico, then glanced at her companion. "Whatd'ya think, Gabrielle?"

"Looks just like the Propylaea to the Acropolis." Gabrielle nodded. "Only far larger, and dirtier. It's as black as jet. Doesn't anyone clean it, at all?"*

"That's soot from the coal fires of the city and the steam engines, ma'am." Haggard informed the ladies. "Almost every building quickly gets dirty, like that. Can't go about the City cleaning every house; can't be done. Next year they'd all be dirty again!"

"Well, all I can say is—Athens ain't like that." Gabrielle sniffed critically. "We know how to respect beauty in Greece."

"This way, please." Holmes however concentrated on the matter in hand, as was his usual method, striding forward under the dark shadow of the gateway with a firm step; leaving the rest of us to follow as best we could. I saw Gabrielle give a quick smile towards Xena as they walked together in front of me.

Within a couple of minutes Holmes led our party through the main door of the Great Hall and into its tremendous echoing interior, where once again the two Greek women were astonished by the grandeur of the vast room.*

The enormous space in which we found ourselves was rectangular; the ceiling being some 60 feet above our heads, flat and coffered.* It was about 120 feet long and 60 feet wide with a line of four Ionic columns running across each of the shorter ends at first floor level. At this height there were flat smooth walls on each of the long sides which were obviously meant to contain a series of frescoes, but were at the moment blank, above which ran a line of large square windows. At the further end a wide staircase, in two separate sweeping curves, led up to the first-floor level. On a plinth in front of the staircase stood a monumental marble statue of a man in early Victorian clothes.

"Very pleasing proportions." Gabrielle looked up at the ceiling and all round the crowded space. "Wonder if the architect used the '_Golden Rectangle_' theory? Looks like it. All it needs is a statue of Athena, and I'd think I was back on the Acropolis."*

"Who's _this_ statue of?" Xena, more mundanely, contemplated the figure at the far end of the Hall with some interest.

"George Stephenson," Haggard supplied the information. "the founder of the modern steam locomotive."*

"Ah, the Pericles of the rails!" Xena had apparently been doing some digging into English History; but more likely, I suddenly thought, Gabrielle had passed on some of her own researches.*

"Ha-ha. Very well put." Haggard laughed at the curiously relevant description. "Yes, indeed, just so."

"We must get on." Holmes was in something of a hurry, as was his nature when hot on the scent. "Our platform is this way; through the left hand Booking-Office."

We crossed the floor of the immense Hall in several groups. Xena and Gabrielle walking close beside myself, with Haggard behind us and Holmes just ahead.

"_Golden Rectangle_'?" Xena raised her eyebrows and spoke with a humorous tone to her blonde companion as we walked. "Have you been reading Vitruvius again? I keep telling ya, Gabrielle, you can read too much, y'know!"*

"Nobody can read too much, Xena." Gabrielle grinned as they hurried on. "Scrolls are my delight; you know that. I'm not too keen on these book things they seem to use here, though. D'you think they'll catch on?"*

"They have caught on, dearest!" Xena groaned, and answered somewhat despairingly. "Remember, we're not where we should be. We're ahead of the game at the moment; as far as Time goes!"

"Oh, yeah, right!" Gabrielle frowned, as if contemplating a difficult problem. "When did you say Ares would have to send us back?"

"Shush!" But Xena's warning came too late; Holmes had heard the remark, and jumped on it.

He stopped in his tracks, almost making Gabrielle crash into him; and turned to eye her intently.

"Ares? You speak of Ares. Who exactly is this mysterious man?" Holmes glanced from the young blonde to her tall dark companion, with a hint of annoyance in his manner. "I think a few biographical facts from you would not be out of order. He helped to create quite a lively set-to at the '_Prospect of Whitby_' last night. But I must tell you if his talents lie only in that direction a visit to the '_Rising Sun_' in the Tottenham Court Road on a Saturday night may well give him some interesting pointers towards his fighting style."*

"The '_Rising Sun_'." Gabrielle grinned at Holmes. "Xena and I have been there regularly. It's sorta on the route we used to meet that moron Moran when he thought I was a simple messenger. They serve a nice roast beef dinner there."

There was a long pause as, for the first and only time in our acquaintance, I watched Holmes almost defeated by the impulse to say outright to a Lady what he actually thought of her. Eventually his better feelings triumphed and he merely smiled, icily.

"Ares! I wish to hear about Ares!"

"There's nothing to hear, Mr Holmes." Xena came back into the fray with energy, and just as much of determination as the great detective. She stared into his face with gleaming blue eyes, which reminded me inexorably of the brilliantly coloured sea backgrounds to many of Alma-Tadema's paintings.* "He's a friend who came with us from Greece. He helps; that's what he does, generally. You need have no worries about him. He assists us when he can. That's all."

The last words were spoken in a cold tone which unmistakably indicated the conversation was over, and she remained staring unbowed into Holmes's face with an indefatigable resolve. Finally my friend admitted defeat, turned on his heel and carried on towards the Booking-Office without a word.

There was a rather ornate wooden partition forming the centre of the left hand wall of the Great Hall, in which was set a pair of wide doors. Through these we discovered a lower darker, dustier room with a long glass-fronted counter running down the right-hand side. On the bare floor, furnished only with a couple of uncomfortable-looking benches, stood the tall waiting figure of Inspector Lestrade. Within a minute he had ushered us through this dingy ticket-dispensing chamber onto the platforms proper.

—OOO—

The platforms at Euston numbered about ten and were long, stretching on both hands into the distance amongst a veritable forest of thin cast-iron pillars under the low overhead glass canopy. Because of the heavy contamination over the years by engine smoke this glass roof had long ago lost any presumptions to being transparent. A heavy gloom sat firmly in place, making the distant platforms seem far away.

It appeared even darker because of the faint haze hanging in the air; accompanied by the rich all-enveloping smell to be found in every railway station consisting of hot engine-oil, warm metal, unlimited amounts of steam, and coal smoke. On at least four nearby platforms there were rakes of coaches, headed by steaming engines of various sizes, spewing thick clouds of smoke into the already overpowering atmosphere. The noise, as one came onto the open platforms, was intense; with engines coughing and hissing, and their coaches clattering and banging as they were marshalled together by small clanging whistling shunters bringing up the rear. It was also quite warm, not to say hot, in the confined space and constricted atmosphere.

"Great Hades boots, it's like being in a hot bath here!" Gabrielle wiped her face with the back of her hand and scratched ostentatiously at her blouse without any attempt at false decorum, before grabbing her long ankle-length skirts with both hands and swinging them about as if seeking relief from the heat. "Gods, look at all the women. How can they stand these restrictive clothes? I'm dyin' here, Xena!"

"You'll survive." Xena only grinned in reply. "It's the fashion here. Remember when you turned up in Ephesus wearing that short skirt, and the authorities nearly threw ya out for bad moral behaviour; till I intervened?"

"Yeah." Gabrielle nodded as we walked along the concrete platform. "Of course that was another tim—"

"Quite a crowd, isn't there, Doctor Watson?" Xena interrupted her companion somewhat hurriedly, I thought. "Is there some kinda holiday goin' on?"

"No, just the ordinary hurly-burly of city life." I looked about at the army of travellers we found ourselves battling through. "This is one of the major terminus's for the city, you see."

There was indeed an impressive crowd of ill-tempered passengers trying to find their trains, assisted by a veritable army of porters in their somewhat scruffy uniforms; many pushing rattling iron-wheeled trolleys with extraordinary amounts of luggage heaped on them. The whole noisy scene was one of hurry, movement, and anxious cries from mothers to harassed fathers not to forget little James, or Amy as it might be, last seen sitting on an empty trolley back on platform 7 ten minutes ago! The ladies were not impressed.

"Gods, Xena, this is Tartarus!" Gabrielle watched the thick white steam rising from the chimney of a large engine nearby. "These things are straight from a nightmare. They're monstrous!"

"They're only machines, Gabrielle." Xena looked around at the smoke-laden atmosphere; the shadowy depths of the large shed; and the curved roof of the engine's open-backed cab. "People inside, driving them; like a chariot, only without the horses."

"Hades, Xena, look at the size of them?" Gabrielle eyed the engine dubiously. "How much do they weigh, d'you suppose?"

"That one, probably about 80 tons I should imagine." Holmes glanced idly at the mighty monster indicated by Gabrielle. "They do have almost incredible reserves of power, I believe."

"If you would all kindly follow me." Lestrade strode on purposefully through the noisy throng of pushing hurrying passengers milling all around us. "Our platform is some distance off, this way."

As we walked through the busy crowds we were again enveloped in an all-embracing cacophony as hundreds, if not thousands, of people hurried past going in both directions and all seemingly talking at once in loud tones. It was similar to being at a football match just as a particularly well-liked player had scored a goal. Xena, however, still had important matters she wished to discuss.

"What about that missing dynamite, Inspector Lestrade?" Xena stared intently at the thin figure in the long overcoat as we moved on as best we could. "Moran still has—how much?"

"Maybe twenty-five sticks." He seemed reluctant to part with this information.

"How much damage could that do?" Gabrielle looked from the policeman to Haggard, then Holmes. "Will he use it to attack the Queen?"

Lestrade forbore to answer, leaving Holmes to take the initiative.

"There are a few tunnels, and many more bridges, on the route from Euston to Manchester." Holmes shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps Moran could set up an ambush and try to blow a bridge with the train on it, but I think it unlikely. It leaves too much chance of Her Majesty escaping merely with injuries. He really wishes to accomplish her demise entirely!"

"It is, however, a contingency which the Yard has considered, and made plans against." Lestrade straightened up, with his chin in the air and looked at his companions with an air of determination. "There have been extensive investigations carried out all along the whole route. Men searching every foot of the permanent way.* And on the day there will actually be three trains, not one; travelling in more or less of a convoy."

"What're the other two trains for?" Xena turned to the policeman with interest. "I suppose they'll be ahead and behind the Royal train?"

"Not necessarily!" Lestrade glanced round as we eventually came to a halt; taking note of the fact there were now few people nearby on the sparsely occupied platform on which we had finally found some sort of sanctuary. Even then his next words came in a lowered voice hardly above that of a whisper. "There'll be a Permanent Way train, with engineers aboard, going first. We haven't decided yet whether the middle train should be Her Majesty's or not. I and yourselves will be on the third, along with a large compliment of armed officers."

"Are these three trains easily distinguishable from each other, Lestrade?" Haggard asked a pertinent question. "If so, Moran may easily identify the Queen's; and act accordingly."

"We thought of that, sir." The Inspector nodded his head. "Our own train will consist of the same number and type of coaches as the Royal one—down to a spare Royal coach at the centre of the formation! They will both even be drawn by the same class of engine. The Royal coach on our train will act as a kind of decoy to anyone merely watching from the trackside."

"And the placing of the Royal train in the convoy?" Holmes spoke with a sharp intensity. "When will that decision be taken?"

"The Commissioner at Scotland Yard will make that choice on the day." Lestrade glanced sharply at my friend. "It may be he decides to place it third, at the tail of the convoy—in which case, if anything happens to it, we shall just have to reverse back; instead of race forward to it."

"What about these three trains moving so closely together on the same line." Holmes asked another, rather technical question, but one of immense importance. "Isn't there a block code in place? No train to be on the same section of line while another train ahead occupies it—no matter how long the section!"*

"Well sir," Lestrade stroked his forehead, under the brim of his round bowler, as he contemplated this question. "I don't mind telling you there have been arguments over that problem. Arguments what you would think were nearly going to end in blood flowin'! I never knew Railway Directors could draw on such a range o' expletives! The things that were said over that conference table at Euston just over a week ago would'a made you break out in a cold sweat if you'd have heard them. Mr Webb, the Chief Mechanical Engineer, was the most vociferous.* He wasn't for having the block system interfered with at any cost; but finally the other Directors saw sense and an order was passed that all three trains could enter the same block together. But none of 'em were happy about it!"

"That may not pose as much of a danger as might be expected." Holmes mused, one finger running over his chin. "I believe the Queen is notorious for never allowing her train to exceed some ridiculously slow speed, however long the journey?"

"That's correct, sir." Lestrade nodded. "I only found out about this at the Directors meeting last week. I'm told she never allows the engine hauling her train to exceed 40 miles an hour, whatever the circumstances; and she generally prefers 30 miles an hour!"*

"Well, that may be helpful in some ways to you, Inspector Lestrade, but it gives Moran just as much of a bonus, surely?" Gabrielle spoke thoughtfully, in her turn. "It still seems fast to me; but I suppose it'll give him all the time in the world for any nefarious scheme he may decide to play on the line. And, of course, it'll lengthen the journey-time from Euston to Manchester a great deal!"

"We'll just have to be observant at all costs." Xena shook her head. "Like Holmes, I think Moran wants to use his fancy gun on the Queen; to be certain of his result. That probably means waiting till she reaches this city of Manchester."

"Well, anyway, here we are, ladies and gentlemen!" Lestrade stood at the platform entrance and waved proprietarily at the vast machine simmering on the rails a few feet away. "This here's one o' the engines that'll be hauling us on the day!"

"Great Hephaestus!" Gabrielle stared, appalled. "Another monster!"

—OOO—

The engine in question did indeed seem gigantic so close-up, even though I found out later it was a rather common type that was extensively used across the whole LNWR system. It sat by itself, with no carriages attached, just simmering quietly with an air of barely contained power. But Inspector Lestrade, with all the delight and authority of someone who has only learned their facts in the last hour or so, soon informed the ladies and the rest of his audience just what these machines amounted to.

"What you see here, ladies and gentlemen, is one o' the most up-to-date railway engines you could possibly hope to travel by." I fear Lestrade had recently been reading some of the Company's own descriptive pamphlets, and the influence of their style showed. Holmes, for one, listened with a gentle smile shadowing his lips as the policeman continued. "It's one of the '_Precedent_' class loco's.* A 2-4-0 type. That means, ladies, it has a two-wheel leading trolley, and two sets of two driving wheels, linked by coupling-rods so the driving-force goes to all four wheels together. Those big bugg—er, wheels, you see just ahead of the cab!"

"They're gigantic, Lestrade." Gabrielle could still not contain her astonishment at the massive size of the juggernaut before her.* "Why on earth does it need those huge wheels? They're taller than Xena, here."

"Because of traction, Miss Potidaea." Lestrade was not to be brought up short now by a mere technical fact. "The larger the wheel, the greater the grip it can exert on the track as it goes along. These have a 6 foot 9 inch diameter. Wonderful, really!"

"Hey, Xena, look at this!" Gabrielle had walked to the edge of the platform and was studying the side of the towering machine. "There's a name set on the—the rounded thingy covering the top of the wheel. See!"

Xena strode forward and the two women stood together contemplating the brass nameplate; which seemed to have some magnetic quality or meaning for them. I found out later that many of this class of locomotive had names as well as numbers to distinguish them. This particular engine gloried in the name '_Amazon_'.

"Well, would ya lookit that." Xena seemed impressed by this detail. "Now that's what even I call a good omen. Figure things are looking up, eh, Gabrielle?"

"They sure ain't gettin' any worse, warrio—er, Xena." Gabrielle smiled with obvious happiness. As the ladies turned away we all followed Lestrade once more as he waved a hand in the direction of the platform entrance.

"As you can see I've got a constable guarding the platform for the next hour or so, till the engine is taken away again." He glanced up and down the still crowded main concourse, under the dirty glass roof, as we all stood by him. "If you come over to this side, ladies; there seems to be a rush for the train in the next platform. I think it's just about to leave."

As we stood in a quiet backwater, formed by the juxtaposition of two empty trolleys, the last frantically running passengers leapt aboard the coaches; doors slammed with loud bangs; the engine gave an almighty whistle, with a plume of white steam ascending to the roof, followed by coughing blasts of dark smoke; and a uniformed guard waved a large green flag over his head as he yelled out, rather after the fact it seemed, the destination route for the train.

"Willesden Junction, Watford Junction, King's Langley." The guard waved his flag with verve and enthusiasm, obviously proud to give of his best. "Rugby, Lichfield, Crewe, and all points North-West. All aboard!"*

There was a continuous flume of whitish smoke from the chimney; the wheels turned slowly with smooth efficiency; and, after a few rattles and metallic squeals from the various carriage-wheels, the train backed out of the platform like a living thing; leaving a thick haze and oily smell in its wake.

"Great Gods, are we really going to have to travel on one of those monsters?" Gabrielle's tone was one of wonder, mixed with a little anxiety.

"Don't worry, Gabrielle." Xena moved to stand close beside her friend, putting an arm round her shoulders. "I'll be with ya. What could possibly go wrong with me there, eh?"

Gabrielle gave a rather dubious laugh, but nonetheless put her arm tightly round Xena's waist as we all moved on along the now empty platform.

—OOO—

**Notes: **

1. The Cadogan Hotel, Kensington, was built in 1887. At the time of this story, in 1894, it was just another high-class hotel; but would achieve lasting fame less than a year later when, on 6th April 1895, Oscar Wilde was arrested there.

2. Sloane Street and Square. Later to become famous as the haunt of the female fashion type, the '_Sloane Ranger_'.

3. Propylaea=Gateway. The Euston Arch was said to have been modelled on the ancient entrance to the Acropolis.

4. Great Hall, Euston. Built in 1849. Demolished, along with the entrance Arch, in 1961-62.

5. Coffering. A coffer (or coffering) in architecture, is a sunken panel in the shape of a square, rectangle, or octagon set into a ceiling. Such sunken panels were used as decoration in Greek and Roman times, and are still popular today.

6. Golden Rectangle. A golden rectangle is one whose side lengths are in the golden ratio, 1:1.618. See Wiki.

7. George Stephenson, 1781-1848. This statue now stands in the National Railway Museum, York, England.

8. Pericles. Circa 495-429 BC. Was a prominent statesman and General in Athens. Responsible for commissioning most of the surviving architectural structures on the Acropolis, including the Parthenon.

9. Vitruvius. Marcus Vitruvius Pollio. Born circa 80-70BC, died after 15BC. Roman writer, architect and engineer. Best known for his surviving important work '_De Architectura_'.

10. 'Scrolls-delight'. '_And as for me, though my learning's slight,/In books for to read is my delight, . . /So heartily that pleasure is there none/That from my books would see me gone._' Geoffrey Chaucer. 'The Legend of Good Women'.

11. '_Rising Sun_', Tottenham Court Road. Still open for business today.

12. Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema. 1836-1912. A Dutch painter who settled in England in 1870 and spent the rest of his life there. Famous for his depictions of the luxury and decadence of the Roman Empire. See Wiki.

13. Permanent way. This refers to the whole structure of rails, sleepers, fishplates, points, and lineside structures such as small cabins, fences etc. Also tunnels and bridges.

14. Block code. Absolute block signalling allowed only one train to occupy a defined section of track at a time. The system held sway on British railways from about 1880 till 1950.

15. Francis William Webb, 1836-1906, engineer, was the Chief Mechanical Engineer responsible for the design and manufacture of locomotives for the LNWR (London and North Western Railway) from 1871 till 1903.

16. 30-40 mph speed limit for Queen Victoria's train. This is indeed an established historical fact.

17. Seventy 2-4-0 '_Precedent_' Class railway engines were built from 1874-1882. One example, No. 790 '_Hardwicke_' of 1877, survives in its rebuilt form of 1892 in the National Railway Museum, York, England.

18. Juggernaut. A destructive, dangerous, and unstoppable force; especially applied to large heavy road-vehicles nowadays.

19. No. 861 '_Amazon_' was built in 1877 and entirely rebuilt in 1903 (virtually as a new engine), before finally being scrapped in 1922.

20. 'Willesden Junction-Crewe'. All real places on the train route to Manchester.

**Extra Note:-** Have readers noticed that when typing, if one's fingers slip accidentally on the keyboard, instead of 'Gabrielle' one ends up with 'Fabrielle'? I make no comment, merely noting this interesting fact! :)

Where will our intrepid heroes be in the next chapter? Well, just imagine Xena, Gabrielle, and Watson in a carriage on the crowded streets of London, and their recognising Colonel Moran trailing them in another carriage. Think the car chase from 'Bullitt'!

—OOO—


	12. The First Great Car Chase

—OOO**—**

**Chapter 12.**

'**The First Great Car Chase'**

It was late afternoon when we once more exited the vast confines of Euston Railway Terminus under the dark brooding Entrance Arch. Haggard gave his farewells and went off about his private business, while Holmes quietly disappeared into the crowds milling about the pavements. When asked by Xena where he was headed I had to admit I was not sure.

"Holmes has a remarkable capacity for delving into the darkest corners in search of snippets of information, ladies." I shrugged my shoulders. "He will, no doubt, turn up again in a few hours with some fresh morsel."

We saw Lestrade on his own way back to Scotland Yard, then the ladies and I climbed into our waiting four-wheel growler driven by the inestimable Josiah Blake, who had been so useful in the earlier Belsize Park fiasco. Our destination was meant to be the nearby Regent's Park, where we could stroll and discuss the events of the past few days in peace; but this plan was immediately knocked on the head when Xena paused slightly before entering our dull-green carriage. On sitting and closing the door she glanced meaningfully at Gabrielle before addressing me.

"D'ya see that black coach, over on the corner of the street some ways off?" Xena nodded to her left out the window. "Along on the far side, sorta hiding just behind that cart with the boxes piled on it."

I leaned forward cautiously to look out the glass of the window, following the direction she indicated. There was indeed another solitary four-wheeler sitting at the edge of the pavement just by the corner fifty yards away. At first I could see nothing out of the ordinary about it; then something, I could not say what exactly, clicked in my mind making it abundantly clear the dark stationary vehicle was up to no good. This curious almost unfounded suspicion was only increased when, as we moved away from the kerb, the other vehicle swung into motion also; slipping into the traffic to follow behind us by some hundred yards or so.

"Is it Colonel Moran?" I addressed my question to Xena, but Gabrielle answered in her stead.

"Maybe. Or one or more of his minions, probably up to no good!" The blonde-haired young lady frowned intently; which, I must say, seemed only to add a note of mysterious beauty to her features.*

"Yeah." Xena nodded, as she peered through our coach's small square rear window at our pursuer. "Maybe you better hang onto something solid, Doctor! It may be a bumpy ride if they decide to pull any fancy tricks."

"Tricks?" I was somewhat taken aback at this possible outcome to our afternoon journey. "What kind of tricks?"

"Like trying to run us off the road; or just kill us with those—whad'ya call 'em—pistols." Gabrielle seemed calm enough, though she spoke of amazing things happening on the streets of London.

"Well, ladies," I tried to keep my voice as steady as possible in the jogging vehicle. "If Moran tries that sort of thing we are not exactly unprepared ourselves."

Gabrielle actually grinned when I produced my trusty Service revolver from the capacious pocket of my long overcoat and laid it ready in my lap.

"Gods, Doctor." She shook her head as she glanced at Xena. "Do you go everywhere with that thing?"

"I've had it since my days as a soldier." I tried to keep an off-hand tone in my voice as we carried on along the Euston Road. "It's served me well in various situations. Though I confess I am not the world's best marksman by a long way."

"Whereas Moran may well be!" Xena frowned as she spoke these chilling words. "We better not give him the chance to show off his accomplishments, eh."

We were now on Marylebone Road, skirting the South edge of the extensive Regents Park.* It was at this point I suddenly had one of the maddest ideas of my entire career. If Holmes had been with us he would certainly have vetoed it—but he wasn't, Xena was. When I quickly explained my proposal she looked at me for a few seconds with a curious expression I could not read, then grinned widely.

"That'll work, Doctor." Xena glanced across at her companion. "Whad'ya think Gabrielle?"

"Sounds good to me." Gabrielle merely shrugged her shoulders in a characteristic way I had noticed before in her, though she smiled tensely all the same as if she were enjoying the thrill of the chase as much as Xena.

My idea was rather straightforward in operation. It was simply to turn down a long straight side-road, then duck into the tight lanes on the environs of Soho and work back behind our pursuers. From there we would have the upper hand and could chase down our quarry. I therefore reached up to open the small hatch in the roof to call instructions to Blake.

"There's a couple of heavy-laden drays behind us; and a suspicious black growler following us." I glanced back out the rear window. "Go down Portland Place, Blake, as quick as you can. The wagons will hold our pursuers up somewhat. Then turn left into Duchess Street. Use the lanes around Soho to get behind the carriage following us. Got that?"

"Aye sir." Our driver responded with a confident note in his gruff voice."Get into the lanes North o' Soho, and get be'ind the bas—ruffian. All clear sir."

The next moment we were all flung to one side in the interior of the coach as Blake, true to his word, turned viciously quickly from the broad width of Marylebone Road into the equally wide and remarkably straight length of Portland Place. We almost seemed to take the corner on two wheels, so fast was our change of course. I saw the ladies exchanging glances that partook more of glee than worry, while I leant down to retrieve my revolver which had fallen and was now skidding around the floor of the coach between our feet. I had also lost my bowler hat; apparently through the open window by my side. I felt the loss acutely, as I had only purchased it three weeks previously.

Thankfully our new route was relatively quiet. The road was free of the heavy-laden wagons that had been such a nuisance in Marylebone Road, and we therefore made excellent progress. While we rumbled along I saw Xena doing something with the edge of her long brown skirt; tearing the side till it was open from her ankle right up the length of her—er, leg. Not knowing what she was up to I busied myself in turning round to glance back through the rear window to see if I could glimpse our pursuers.

"There's a horse-drawn omnibus right behind us now, so I can't see how close they are." I peered back through the glass at the traffic, but could not sight the black carriage at all. "I don't think we've lost them, though. Not yet, anyway."

When I turned round in my seat again it was to see Xena continuing her wardrobe change. Now she had taken off the outer long coat she had worn and laid it on the seat beside Gabrielle. This revealed a short waist-length jacket of red cloth, with a wide black belt. On this belt was the curious large circular metal ring I had noticed once before—at Belsize Park if I remember rightly.

"What exactly _is_ that, Xena?" My curiosity got the better of me as we rocked from side to side in the fast-moving coach.

"A chakram." She was busy with her preparations so gave little attention to my question. "Comes in handy, sometimes."

Gabrielle was more forthcoming, as she leant over to grab my arm and prevent me joining my revolver on the floor as we passed over a particularly uneven stretch of cobblestones.

"It's a weapon, Dr Watson." She grinned innocently as I regained my seat. "You throw it at an opponent. Xena can take someone's head off at fifty paces!"

"Great G—." I was appalled by this revelation, given so matter of factly. "I do hope you realise, ladies, this is England. The constabulary will not look kindly on that sort of thing, you know."

"If whoever's in that coach starts shooting at us they'll get what they deserve, don't worry." Xena had finished the measures she had been working on and leaned forward in her seat to call up to Blake through the roof panel. "I'm coming up. Shift over a bit—I want to take the reins."

Without any further ado the tall woman grabbed the handle of the door beside her and opened it wide. Xena leaned out and took a firm grip on the top edge of the coach's roof, then swung herself round till she clung to the outside of the coach as we drove along the road amongst the traffic. I saw several passers-by gawping in astonishment as we rushed past them, and could easily understand their mystification.

Kicking hard with her boot Xena hauled herself out of sight and I felt the coach rock sideways on its springs as she climbed onto the seat beside Blake. Gabrielle leaned forward to haul the door shut, at the same time putting her head out the window to call up to her companion.

"Nicely done, Xena. How's it looking?"

"Blake's giving me directions." Xena's mezzo-soprano tones easily cut through the noise of the surrounding traffic and the wheels of our own coach. "We're goin'ta do the old swing round behind 'em manoeuvre, OK?"

"Got it, Xena." Gabrielle sat back, gripping the edge of the open door-window with her right hand and looked at me with an intense light in her sea-green eyes. "This is where things get interesting, Doctor. We're goin'ta be diving in an' out the lanes hereabouts to get behind our friends, just like you planned. You might wanna hold onto the handle there—Xena's driving ain't a thing of beauty at the best of times, I gotta warn you."

"This is madness." I found myself muttering, to no-one in particular. "Things like this don't happen in 1894!"

"It's Xena. They happen. Get used to it."

Gabrielle had reached down to her ankle, under her long skirt, and now sat back with an evil long-bladed dagger in her hand which seemed to my nervous eye to have at least three blades.

"It's a sai." She explained, having caught my anxious look. "Not really a dagger as such, but a beautiful weapon all the same. I love 'em. You wouldn't believe the places you can stick them, in a fight."

Our conversation was interrupted as the coach suddenly swung to the left and entered the somewhat closer confines of Duchess Street. We rocked from side to side as the coach carried on without losing any speed at all. Duchess Street was in itself short but several smaller lanes led off in the direction of nearby Soho, just to the South. Here there were a multitude of narrow streets and lanes winding in and out of each other, easily confusing anyone not absolutely familiar with the area.

We quickly took another right-hand corner which was as swiftly followed by a left-hand skidding turn as our wheels lost traction on the smooth cobbles and let the coach slide across the road, before Xena regained control of our two horses just in time to prevent us driving full-tilt into a hosiery shop window. A certain number of pedestrians jumped for their lives as our wheels scraped along the edge of the gutter, causing sparks to fly everywhere.* Before I could catch my breath to make a remark to my companion we once again turned left, straightening up with a racking jolt that almost flung me out of my seat; my revolver, in fact, once again twisting out of my fingers and clattering to the floor for the second time.

"Can Xena actually drive a coach?" I asked this rather redundant question breathlessly as I fumbled around my ankles. A fully loaded .45 Webley revolver skittering around the floor between our feet, every now and again pointing its barrel at my toes as it spun around, was not exactly soothing to the senses.*

"Not really!" Gabrielle spoke carelessly, as if the matter were of no great importance. "Not to say actually _drive_ a coach, no. She sometimes has a tendency to mix up the pavements with the street, if you see what I mean."

Before I could continue my line of criticism on this subject our driver herself joined our discussion.

"Hey, ain't this just fun, Gabrielle?" Xena seemed completely at ease on her perch above us as she called down through the open roof panel. "These streets are a bit narrow, but I'm gettin' the hang of it. We should be behind the black coach now. Can Doctor Watson see it? I gotta keep my eye on these damned horses. They don't seem t'like driving fast, and Blake says he can't see without his spectacles—lost them overboard a ways back."

Gabrielle gave me a look as if to say there was nothing else to be done, so I pointed wordlessly at my still unattended firearm on the dusty floor and stuck my head out the window as she bent down to attempt to retrieve it. Almost instantly I was rewarded with a clear sight of the black coach some thirty yards ahead of us in the narrow lane we now found ourselves in. Their driver was hunched forward, as if gazing intently ahead in an endeavour to catch sight of his prey amongst the traffic in front of him. But just as suddenly a dark shape appeared at the left-hand side of the coach as someone leaned out, looking back towards us. Immediately on this movement came a shattering crack on the side of our coach, just by my head, as a bullet's impact sent splinters flying.

"Missed, by God!" I exclaimed in a shocked voice, as I quickly pulled my head back in out of harm's way.

"So it ain't Moran, then." Gabrielle seemed quite pragmatic or matter of fact about the incident. "_He_ would'a blown your head clean off."

"Thank you very much, I'm sure." I was somewhat taken aback by this form of comforting a victim of trying circumstances. "I wish people would stop talking about people's heads parting company with their bodies. As a metaphor it has outstayed its welcome, I'll have you know."

Wordlessly Gabrielle leaned over with an apologetic expression and handed back my revolver. Then she gave a meaning look towards the coach window again.

"Don't let me stop you having a go at the bandits." She raised her eyebrows expectantly, with a gleam of enthusiasm in her voice. "I'm kinda interested to see what those weapons do when you fire them."

"I have no intention of firing it in our present situation, madam." I ostentatiously placed the revolver back in my coat pocket. "This is a public street. In fact we couldn't be in a more public location if we'd spent months planning it. I have no intention of returning fire here. So put your mind at rest on that score."

Gabrielle actually pursed her lips in a slightly annoyed manner, but restrained herself from any reply. Instead she leaned out the opposite window, completely unfazed by the danger, and took a view of the situation herself.

"I wonder if we could overtake the coach?" She called back her musings over her shoulder while still hanging out the top half of the door. "I could jump across and take care of the driver."

"Hardly necessary I would have thou—" The rest of my reply was cut short as another bullet ricocheted off the side of the coach and Gabrielle jumped back into the interior somewhat faster than she had leant out.

"There's a ramp ahead." Gabrielle offered this item of information succinctly, as she crouched down between the seats and braced her back against the cushion. "Some sort'a roadworks—a trench! You might wanna think about not hitting your head on the roof."

We swerved again at this point, which helped me gain position on the planks of the floor beside Gabrielle. To tell the truth I was propelled off my seat, like a Post Office bag being thrown into a train's parcel carriage, to land on top of Gabrielle in a mix of arms and legs. The next instant I faintly heard the alarmed neighing of our horses followed by a jolt as the coach seemed to lose weight, almost as if it were flying. Which, to all intents and purposes it was. Xena had aimed the coach dead centre at a long pile of earth by the side of the trench stretching all across the road and set the horses at this target.

For a moment all four wheels were off the ground as we actually flew across the four-foot wide trench; then we crashed back to earth with immense impetus. I felt myself jolted into mid-air; saw Gabrielle squirming with a lightning movement out from under me; then I crashed back to the dusty floorboards with a mighty thump that knocked the breath from my body. The coach groaning and trembling in every joint all round us.

"This—this can't go on!" I was gasping for breath as Gabrielle helped me up to the seat again. "Where are we now?"

"In a much wider street." Gabrielle was very helpful as she gazed enthusiastically out her window, excitement dancing in her eyes. "Lots of high grey stone buildings, and an amazing number of omnibuses. We seem to be coming to—to—yeah, to some kinda open cross-roads with huge buildings all around."

"Oh, God." I knew instantly where our wild ride had brought us—to the very heart of the City. "Piccadilly Circus!"*

"Yeah?" Gabrielle slipped back from the window once more, grabbing the handle by her side again. "Well, there ain't goin' to be any fun for us—I think Xena's lost control of the horses. I saw her stand up to throw her chakram at the driver of the black coach. It's only about thirty feet ahead of us now. She hit him in the back, I think; but she lost the reins as she threw. Hold on, there's some sorta statue coming up right ahead of us in the middle of the road!"

I was aware of more wild neighing from our put-upon horses; the coach jolted wickedly as it skidded over a kerb onto a wide paved area; then I caught a brief glimpse of the wide column and dainty figure of Eros outlined against the sky as we swept past the famous statue, missing it by centimetres.* There was the devil of a noise outside as, presumably, several coaches, omnibuses, wagons, and pedestrians, attempted to jump for their collective lives; then an almighty crash as what sounded like an unlucky coach came to grief immediately ahead of us. Xena somehow managed to regain her reins and bring our horses under her control, just in time to stop them dragging us to the same fate as the previous coach. There was a skidding screech, during which sparks shot up above the level of the window on my side, then the coach lurched to a final halt in a terrifying silence.

It took only a moment for Xena to jump down, wrench the door open and grab Gabrielle by the shoulder to make sure she was uninjured. Then she turned her attention to me with a wide grin.

"Some kinda run, wasn't it, Doctor?" She actually laughed with pleasure as she handed me down to the debris-strewn road.

It was here that I finally saw clearly what had happened. The black coach we had been pursuing had ended its career by wrapping itself comprehensively round one of the stone entrance pillars of the London Pavilion Theatre, located to one side of Piccadilly Circus.* We ourselves, as a result of Xena's expertise, had just missed the same fate. What was left of the coach was merely a tangled wreck of broken wood and metal. The fore-axle had apparently broken as the horses, obviously wild with terror, had run away from the wounded driver. The loose coach had careered at full speed into the stone column, while the two horses now stood under the control of a passer-by some twenty yards away. Apart from some light scratches they appeared relatively uninjured.

The same could not be said for the passenger and driver of the coach, however. I dragged some pieces of broken wood aside, assisted by Xena and Gabrielle, as I tried to give sustenance to the victims; but it was obviously too late. The driver had broken his neck on impact with the stone column of the theatre entrance; as well as having a long bloody wound on his left shoulder where Xena's chakram had hit. Inside the remains of the coach, the man who had shot at us lay in a pile of crumpled clothes with that curious rag-doll effect which always denoted death.

As several policemen ran up to join us and regulate the gawping crowds gathering all round I turned to the ladies once more.

"What Holmes will say about this debacle, I do not know!"

"Well, it probably won't be approving, I guess." Gabrielle drew one hand through her hair, then turned to put a hand on Xena's arm. "At least it's two less of Moran's gang. That wasn't him in the coach was it, by the way?"

"Nah." Xena shook her head as we all walked to the side of the pavement to join Blake, who was catching his breath and obviously busy thanking the Gods he was still alive. "It ain't him. No such luck. Whose idea was it to put that damned statue in the middle of the road? Damned silly planning."

"That's Eros." I gave the statue a perfunctory glance. "It's getting quite a reputation. The people seem to like it."

"Humph." Xena was clearly unimpressed both with the artistic presumptions of the statue itself and the taste of the British public. "Well, would you call us all a cab, Doctor? I could do with a cup of tea, or better yet wine, back at Baker Street. Meanwhile, I'll wrap a cloth round this scratch of Gabrielle's. Gods, Gabrielle, why do ya always end up gettin' cut to pieces in a fight? I sometimes think I oughta be a medical attendant instead of a warrior."

"Har-har, Warrior Princess." The blonde-haired woman was obviously well versed in giving as good as she got in these exchanges. "That's great coming from someone who's got themselves nearly killed oftener, and spent more time in the Land of the Dead, than anyone else I've ever met!"

While the ladies continued their strange light-hearted banter I wearily stepped to the kerbside to hail another cab. A hot cup of Mrs Hudson's tea seemed like the nectar of the Gods at that precise moment. And, anyway, I felt I would need it to bolster my explanations to Holmes when he returned. What he was going to make of the whole business was anybody's guess.

—OOO—

Notes—

1. It is well documented throughout the Holmes stories that Watson has something of the reputation of being a ladies man. He was apparently married twice. It would appear that Gabrielle has caught his eye to a slight extent!

2. The Marylebone Road-Portland Place-Duchess Street-Soho-Piccadilly Circus route is true to the real geography of the city.

3. Most vehicles still had wheels made of wood with thin metal rims instead of soft rubber tyres. These often created sparks when driven at speed over cobbles.

4. Webley were the makers of the revolver most used by the British Army from the 1880's till the 1960's.

5. Piccadilly Circus was a main thoroughfare for the city, just South of Soho and West of Trafalgar Square.

6. Statue of 'Eros' in Piccadilly Circus. Placed in the Circus in 1892 as a memorial to the philanthropic 7th Earl of Shaftesbury. It is actually meant to represent Eros's brother 'Anteros'—the God of Selfless Returned Love.

7. London Pavilion theatre. The theatre has four Corinthian columns on its two main side entrances, though these are at first floor level. What the black coach crashed into was one of the supporting underplinths for one of these columns.

—OOO—


	13. Sometimes Arguments Just Go Nowhere

—OOO**—**

**Chapter 13.**

'**Sometimes Arguments Just Go Nowhere'**

"Well, we're certainly gettin' to see the city." Gabrielle addressed our assembled group cheerily. "I think I know Londinium, er, London—better than Athens, now."*

It was late in the evening of a very busy day. I was just beginning to recover from our earlier dramatic coach ride through the dubious streets and lanes of Soho, with its shocking climax in Piccadilly Circus. Now, back in the safe warm confines of 221b Baker Street, we had all congregated for a council. Our group included Mr Haggard and Jervaise Markham, while Holmes was still absent on his investigations. Lestrade was on duty at Scotland Yard, mopping up the debris of the Piccadilly Circus incident, and could not join us.

Mrs Hudson had done us proud with tea, cold beef, potatoes, and cream cakes. I sat back in my chair, nursing a welcome cup of tea, while I watched Xena and Gabrielle tucking into the food like workhouse inmates let out on a spree. Gabrielle herself had an amazing appetite, seemingly unaffected by recent events.

After Mrs Hudson had left us in privacy Xena implored me with wide eyes and a quavering tone in her voice, like a dying seal I had once seen, to provide wine of some sort. By chance Holmes had some bottles of a red Italian wine, Chianti I believe, donated by a thankful client; and when I placed a couple of these on the table, out of the cupboard where they were residing in cheese-tainted darkness, both women fell on them like hyenas experiencing a particularly dry day.* Even Markham, I could see, watched with something like admiration in his eyes as they proceeded to fill their glasses sky-high.

"These bottles are all very well, but they don't hold as much as a wineskin." Gabrielle was obviously speaking from experience as she examined the container in question.

"Stops ya drinking so much." Xena smiled softly as she looked at the blonde-haired woman beside her.

"Har-har!" Gabrielle turned to me with a grin, not the least put out by her friend's insinuations. "By the way, Doctor Watson, what day is this? I mean, how long have we till the Queen attends the Opening Ceremony in—in—"

"Manchester." Xena came to the young woman's rescue.

"Yeah, there." Gabrielle carried on without a pause. "Am I right in thinking it'll take most of a day to reach it from here? With the Queen insisting on a slow train an' all, that is."

"Today is the 15th of May." I replied to her question with as much factual certainty as I could muster. "I think someone asked the same question last night—or, in fact, earlier this morning; when we were on the Thames chasing Moran after the '_Prospect of Whitby_' fight. This is, I am afraid to admit, still the same day; even after all that seems to have happened in between. It probably _will_ take most of the morning to reach Manchester when we all go there; what with one thing and another."

"Yeah, the last few hours've definitely been packed with excitement, that's for sure." Xena grinned her special, almost petrifying, smile as she glanced up and down the table. "What we need now is a plan —"

"You said that once before." Gabrielle butted in unceremoniously, without regard to the cold look aimed in her direction. "Was it to Holmes's brother Mycroft? Anyway, we still need a plan."

"Y-e-e-s." Xena's only actual response was to raise her eyes to the ceiling for a fraction of a second; though I think I was the only one who noticed this. "So if anyone —"

"We could get Inspector Lestrade to assemble his men." The blonde-haired Amazon (she did indeed, I had suddenly realised, remind me of those fabled women-warriors) set down her now empty glass on the table so firmly its stem broke with a tinkle. "Oops, sorry! Then he can use all these—what are they called—policemen to search the city from end to end. _Well_—it's a plan."

Her last remark was caused by the absolutely deafening silence which her contribution had engendered. To say her idea met with no approval would be to put it mildly. Eventually Xena was the first to close her open jaw and try to instil reason into the discussion.

"Gaw—uuh—d'ya realise how large this city is, Gabrielle?" Xena sat back and took a deep breath. I had the impression she was well-used to her companion's somewhat unusual outlook on the concept of logic. "It's about 500 times the size of Athens."

"Don't be silly." Gabrielle obviously thought she was being mocked, but already had other objects in mind. "By the way—policemen! Why?"

"What d'ya mean—why?" Xena was brought up short by this sudden divergence of the conversation into another channel.

"Why not police-_women_?" The proto-suffragette spoke with a clear sharp note in her voice, and her chin in the air.* Certainly, the conviction of women's rights in society seemed to hold a high place in her interests. "I bet they could do just as good a job. I mean—why not?"

"Er, maybe." Xena bravely tried to ignore the interruption. "So, about—"

"But first something'll have to be done about these damned skirts and blouse things." Gabrielle pursued her course of thought relentlessly. "Women's clothes are so restrictive here, Xena! Much worse than back in Athens. There everything's loose and light; here everything's tight-laced and heavy. And as for these ridiculous things that women put on around the waist under their blouses; you know I just _refuse_ to wear 'em. Silly things!"

At this point, in a conversation which was rapidly approaching the boundaries of good taste, Haggard came to the rescue with an extemporised remark that made everyone turn their attention on the great author.

"To, er, change the subject somewhat—if I, er, were to make a confession you may find it of interest that Colonel Moran had an influence on my writing some years ago." Haggard looked pensively around the table as he surveyed his audience. "He had, while in the Indian Army, written a couple of books on game-hunting. His discussions and rules on the proper methods of hunting your tiger are really quite scientific. Er, well anyway, he had some impact on how I perceived my own character '_Allan Quatermain_'. Not a lot of people know that. Just thought I'd pass the information on, for what it's worth."

"Most interesting, Haggard." I jumped into the conversation with relief at his adroit turning of the topic; but my respite was short-lived. "A really fascinating —"

"Yeah, I'm sure —," Gabrielle, unimpressed by this personal revelation, rolled on over our nervous attempts to halt her ruminations like a tidal wave over a low-lying island. "—so you write stories too, eh? I must read some of your scrolls sometime. I'll give you advice on the difficult bits. It ain't easy being an author. When you have to write about someone like Xena it opens your eyes to all the slimy backwaters of life an' morality, I can tell you!"

"Hey, give it a rest!" The lady in question took instant and proper umbrage at this swift, but unedifying, pencil portrait. "Ain't'cha got anything better to do than call me names? An' get off this clothes thing you're harping on about. Who cares?"

"You never were one for the more dainty elements of style, Xena." Gabrielle jerked her head back in a characteristic manner that made her hair flow like waves on a sea-shore. "Aphrodite always said you couldn't tell a grain sack with holes for arms and legs from a fine chiton. She said —"

"Oh, she did, did she?" Xena turned swiftly in her chair to focus the full power of her snapping eyes on the source of her discomfort. "That's great, coming from someone who thinks _pink _and frothy lace is the sole reason for all creation! I'd like t'see her designs for an army ready t'go into battle. What kinda armour would _she_ figure on, eh? Something light an' delicate; that doesn't scratch under the armpits, I bet. Aphrodite—Huh!"

"There you go again—criticising my friends for no reason." Gabrielle had obviously gotten onto a thorny subject, and meant to pursue the chase across all obstacles. "Here we are, bein' kicked from pillar to post all over this Gods-damned city; made to wear clothes that wouldn't be outta place in a torture chamber; an' shot at with some strange weapon by a freaky madman; an' when I try to lighten the tone by merely sketchin' some ideas on modern fashion in the real world all you can do is call Aphrodite an empty-headed frock tart!"*

"Here, ma'am, that's a bit hot ain't it?" Markham regretted his intervention instantly as both women turned on him together.

"Whatd'ya know about it?" Xena's snarl was exactly like a panther bearing down on its prey, and Markham changed colour at her expression.

"Keep outta it, Markham." Gabrielle, too, was only slightly less intimidating as she also hurled a green-eyed look filled with sarcasm at the poor man. "Men. Huh! What'd they know about life, eh? Buildin' silly Empires an' tryin' t'rule the world. An' keepin' women in these stupid fashions while they walk around themselves in public in those ridiculous trouser things an' Gods-awful top-hats. I mean to say, we all know what _they're_ indicative of don't we. Style? That ain't style; that's just wish-fulfilment. Now, if you want style, I've got some ideas about a new fashion in short chiton skirts. They only come to —"

"Darling, —" But that was as far as the relenting Xena managed.

"Oh, it's 'darling' this, an' 'darling' that, an' 'darling, wait outside'." Gabrielle's tone was imbued with passion as she spoke in short snappy phrases. "But it's 'Gabrielle, dearest' when the band begins to play, eh?* An' anyway, what've you got against my fashion-sense? Aphrodite's been giving me lessons, and now I can do things you wouldn't believe with a couple o' yards o' linen."

"You're right, I wouldn't —"

I began to wonder why Xena kept on with what was obviously the lost cause of getting a word in edgeways.

"—like this chiton skirt I've been thinking about." Gabrielle carried on blithely with a smile; completely unaware of the disparate nature of the topic she was pursuing with such tenacity to the discussion in hand. "It's short, but that's because you need free movement. I mean, when you're running after a bandit, you want to catch him quickly. So the skirt only comes to the top of the thighs and is cut with a bias, so it swings —"

"Is Holmes returning soon?" Haggard asked the question with no regard to politeness as he desperately cut across Gabrielle's flow.

"I wonder if Lestrade will turn up this evening?" I added my little all to the defensive action. "He'll probably have something to say about today's events."

"That were a fine meal but I'm a tad thirsty still, like." Markham was more successful, surprisingly, in cunningly applying to her baser instincts. "Say, Miss Gabrielle, would you pass that bottle o' plonk—er, wine?* I could do wiv a refill. Will you fill yer own glass an' join me, Miss?"

"—which let's the air circulate, you see. Wine? Oh, wine—yeah, I am thirsty, come to think of it." The interjection of the wine motif had alone struck through her mental barricade as nothing else had, stopping her in mid-flow. "Thanks for asking, Markham. Here, lem'me fill your glass. D'you want anymore, Xena?"

"Gods, yes!" The dark-haired Greek lady held her glass out to Gabrielle and watched with apparent relief as it filled with a steady flow of red wine. "Maybe Mr Haggard and Doctor Watson need more, too?"

"Gentlemen?"

Gabrielle looked at us with a broad open expression, as if nothing in the world was wrong. We both jumped at the opportunity to head her off onto another subject matter; but I should have been warned by the still somewhat apprehensive bearing Xena held as she watched her companion.

"Nothing like a drink among friends after a sharp fight, eh?" The blonde warrior (for she was clearly nothing less) grinned easily. "Nice wine warms the heart and makes you feel at peace with the world, don't you think? D'you remember that little affair in Ithaca, Xena? You know, when you were almost —"

"Oh, that." Xena, in her turn found it necessary to interrupt her companion. "That wasn't anything our friends here want to hear about!"

Her last sentence was delivered with a note of caution; to which Gabrielle merely nodded absently as she contemplated the colour of her wine, as the coal fire reflected scintillating sparks of light through her glass.

"You know what?" Gabrielle had again fallen into contemplation, before any of us could stop her. "I've been thinking on how to get the better of this idiot Colonel Moran; an' I've come up with a plan that's foolproof."

"Oh yeah?"

"No need to take that sarky attitude, lady." Gabrielle sniffed in a refined manner; casting an unappreciative glance at Xena. "I can think'a good ideas too. Well, to make it simple—for you to understand Xena—we need to identify the main whorehouses around that Wapping area. That district's the seat of his power, I'm sure; and the whorehouses—"

"Good Heavens, isn't it getting late!" I felt the necessity of stopping this unhampered tone in the conversation before we found ourselves in a really embarrassing position; and again both my male companions came to my rescue.

"Gordon Bennet! 'ere it is 'alf past nine o' clock an' I wiv all the way to the Elephant an' Castle to go."* Markham exhibited as much discomfiture as the rest of us at Gabrielle's uninhibited meanderings. "I think I'll 'ave ter leave yer till termorrer. G'night, all."

"Maybe it's time we all went about our business." Haggard spoke weakly, with a white face. After all, none of us were used to this kind of conversational gambit among our usual lady acquaintances. "I—er, I wonder if I can catch a cab if I leave now?"

"Yeah, I think Gab—I mean we both need'ta get some sleep." Xena launched herself into the general attempt to save something from the wreck. "Come on, lady. Time we left the gentlemen to their own devices. You—we both need some rest."

"What about my plan?" Gabrielle was loath to depart from the presence of such an appreciative audience, or so she clearly thought. "It's brilliantly cunning an' subtle. Can't fail!"

"As brilliant as a beaver in a river, with a woodyard on the banks?" Xena stood and put an arm round the shoulders of the obviously tired blonde-haired woman as she too rose from the table. "Well, it'll just have to wait. It's time to go home, darling."*

"OK, but it's your loss." Gabrielle really did seem weary now; leaning on her friend's arm as they both made for the door. "Catch him in his lair—that's what I mean-ter-say, Xena. Catch him—"

Gabrielle gave an unrestrained yawn that echoed to the ceiling as Xena guided her to the head of the stairs; Haggard, Markham, and I exchanging various expressions of relief as we all carefully went down to the street-door.

"What's on the cards for tomorrow, Doctor Watson?" Xena turned to me as we waited in a group for the arrival of a series of Hansoms and growlers Haggard had hailed. "Another conference?"

"Yes, I think that's probably best." I considered the options for a moment. "Perhaps if we all meet again here, say at 10.30am? I'm sure Holmes will be back; and Lestrade can be called in too."

"OK, see ya tomorrow." Xena helped the tired form of her blonde companion into the dark interior of the coach, before climbing in herself and slamming the door. "Don't worry about us. We can take care of ourselves."

"I don't doubt it, Madam." I spoke with conviction. I pitied the thugs who thought of attacking these two women.

"Goodnight, Watson. Goodnight, ladies." Haggard gave a somewhat boyish grin as he shook my hand before clambering into his Hansom. "A remarkable day. And one of the most—interesting—conversations I've had in a long time."

Even Markham, apparently feeling affluent in his new job, had opted for a Hansom to take him across the River to his home. From which he leaned out to give me his own parting thoughts.

"Wot a pair o' ladies, eh?" He shook his head in appreciation. "I ain't never been employed by such as them before. An edication, it is. Well, g'night sir."

"Goodnight, Markham. See you tomorrow." I waved a hand as the vehicle moved off into the darkening night.

As I moved to the door I glanced up Baker Street and noticed the ladies growler had come to a halt twenty yards away. As I looked curiously at the dark silhouette I saw a blonde-haired head lean out the window, looking back in my direction.

"Hey, Doctor Watson!" Gabrielle's loud voice echoed across the whole width of the quiet street, with its high rows of houses on either hand. "Don't worry about the Wapping whores. We can find 'em in the morning! We just need—"

Her head and shoulders disappeared suddenly, as if hauled back inside the coach by a strong force; but far too late. I actually put my head in my hands for a brief moment, before hurrying for the solid comfort of 221b; trying not to notice the bright lights springing into life from windows up and down both sides of the street, as people twitched their curtains in interest at the passing scene.

Holmes, Lestrade, and even Mycroft couldn't come soon enough tomorrow, in my opinion. And at least I had one certain undeniable scientific fact to place before Holmes on his return—no more Chianti!

—OOO**—**

**Notes —**

1. Londinium. The city was founded by the Romans about 50AD.

2. Chianti is a red wine from Tuscany, Italy.

3. Suffragettes were not referred to as such till about 1904. So this may be another sign that Watson compiled the story from his notes many years after the actual events.

4. Frock tart. A New Zealand name for a dress designer. Slightly anachronistic in this story, but fun!

5. '_O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away";  
But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play,_' Tommy Atkins. 'Barrack-Room Ballads', 1892. Kipling. Gabrielle must have read the poem somewhere.

6. Plonk. A slightly derogatory adjective for cheap wine.

7. James Gordon Bennett, Jr. (May 10, 1841 – May 14, 1918), generally known as Gordon Bennett. He was publisher of the '_New York Herald_'. His controversial reputation apparently inspired, in Britain, the use of his name as an expression of incredulity. See Wiki.

8. I am here referencing the famous ending to the classic TV show '_Blackadder Goes Forth_'.

—OOO**—**


	14. Tea, Col Moran, & Markham's Restorative

—OOO**—**

**Chapter 14.**

'**Tea, Colonel Moran, and Markham's Restorative'**

"Ha-ha!"

"Don't laugh, Holmes. If you had only _been_ there?" I stared gloomily at the tall form of my friend as he lounged in one of our slightly decrepit armchairs.

"Well, at least we have learned something, Watson."

"Oh, yes."

"The potency of that fine batch of wine our foreign client so happily gifted to us." Holmes grunted in amusement again at the remembrance of the woeful tale of my last night's engagement with the Greek ladies. "Rather stronger than I had imagined, in fact. Perhaps, as in Classical times, you should water it down for your next banquet, eh. Ha-ha!"

"Holmes, it was a disaster." I could barely bring myself to recall the events of the previous evening, so fresh and terrible were they still in memory. "The things Gabrielle said, and the way her mind seemed to work! Well, I was astounded. Even Markham thought it all a bit much!"

"Be that as it may, we need to return to the case in point, Watson." Holmes settled more comfortably in his chair and puffed deeply on the meerschaum pipe he had chosen for his enjoyment.* "I think we can safely say some things are clearer now."

"You surprise me, Holmes." I felt justified in interrupting the great detective. "As far as I can see everything is murkier now than when we started."

Holmes had reappeared at our Baker Street rooms just before 10 a.m. and, as was his usual habit, had shouted for the indispensible Mrs Hudson to hurry up and supply eggs, bacon, and hot tea instanter. A sure sign he had made substantial progress.

Now, having slaked a formidable appetite and harassed the busy Mrs Hudson into providing a second pot of tea, he was ready to explain just what he had been up to in the last few hours. But before he could begin there was a formidable banging on the street door and we soon heard Xena's deep tones as she addressed Mrs Hudson in the hallway downstairs. Another moment brought a quick knock on the study-door and the tall dark-haired Greek woman breezed in with a wide grin, clearly none the worse for her encounter with the Chianti yesterday evening. Behind her Holmes and I could hear the slow steady tread of another climbing the stairs and, after a moment, Gabrielle also came into the room.

But between Gabrielle and her companion was a world of difference. My professional instincts came into play and I immediately formed a pretty fair notion of a person labouring under all the lingering effects of a night on the tiles. Her blonde hair was tousled and straggly; her face much paler than usual; shoulders slumped; and an expression of pain flickered across her features at every step. The general impression she favoured us with was of someone unhappy with their surroundings; their feelings; and their likely chances of a quick recovery.

"Don't speak to me." Gabrielle subjected Holmes and me to a baleful glare from shadow-circled eyes under a deeply frowning brow. "Don't. Not a word. Wassat—tea? Gimme!"

She collapsed onto a chair at the table; poured the reviving beverage; and hung her head low over the steaming cup as if the fragrant aroma would of itself bring much-needed healing benefits. She waved a cursory hand in the air, as if enjoining us to go on without her for the time being, then brought the cup to her lips and proceeded to imbibe the restorative brew with a loud slurping sound. She had other things on her mind than mere manners, obviously.

Xena simply favoured her friend with a censorious shake of the head before crossing to look out the bay window at the passing traffic in the street below. After a moment she swivelled round and leaned back on the sill, while focussing her attention on Holmes where he sat near Gabrielle.

"Don't worry about her. The old lady's just had one too many again." Xena actually sniggered; which I thought somewhat cruel in the circumstances. "I keep tellin' her she can't hold her liquor, but she will do it."

The only response from the hunched girl was a low growl, like a leopard preparing to spring, which Xena completely ignored.

"She'll be back with us shortly, when she's taken enough of that tea stuff on board." Xena again looked askance at her battered companion. "D'ya want another pot, Gabrielle? I can easily shout for Mrs Hudson."

"If you shout—you die screaming, lady." Gabrielle's reply was given in a pain-wracked snarl as she held her forehead with both hands for a moment, before she fell to slurping the contents of her cup again.

"Anyways, I'm thinking you might have some kinda news for us this morning, Mr Holmes?" Xena paused to favour Gabrielle with a quick smile, but as the patient was now engaged in peering into the teapot's interior in the hope of finding the last dregs still there, she got no reply to her conciliatory action.

"I have had a modicum of success." Holmes dragged his fascinated gaze away from the antics of the blonde young woman to look across at Xena. "Yes, things are taking a rather more hopeful turn. About ten o'clock last night I ended up in Wapping again. I was in a disguise that was meant to reflect a sailor on shore-leave; but I fear my expertise is slipping, for hardly had I entered the '_Town of Ramsgate_' Public House* than a highly doubtful character looking like a cross between a chimney-sweep and a racing tout sidled up to the corner table where I sat and introduced himself.

" 'ello Mr Holmes, we've bin waitin' yer arrival all evening, so's we 'ave." He spoke with the guttural intonations of Whitechapel and reeked of the foulest gin. "The old 'un wants a word wiv you. Over there, in the other corner."

Peering through the thick blanket of tobacco smoke wafting through the close-packed room I could just make out the silhouette of a tall gentleman standing beside a door on the far side of the public saloon. I knew instantly it was none other than Colonel Moran. He made a gesture towards the door, which he himself immediately went through; leaving me in the position of reviewing my options in the matter."

"I'da gone after him." Xena spoke concisely, in cold tones. "Grasp any opportunity of doing away with the bloodthirsty villain."

"Well, my own idea was rather more along the lines of a Peace Conference, and perhaps his quiet surrender." Holmes favoured the tall warrior-like Greek woman with a considering glance. "So I stepped across the sawdust-strewn floor, past various groups of stevedores, costermongers, and-_ahem_-dubious women who frequented the place. The door, when I reached it, was slightly ajar and I have to say I opened it with a feeling of wariness. But it merely led to a short alley which in turn opened out a few yards along onto Wapping High Street. Here, on the pavement, the tall figure of our foe was awaiting my arrival with what I can only describe as a nonchalant attitude. He appeared completely at his ease; which, of course, is when he should be regarded as at his most dangerous! It was with this last belief in mind that I approached to stand by his side; with, I have to say, no very clear idea of what my next move ought to be."

"To kill him!" Xena was positive as to _her_ response. "Break the hound's neck before he could get a word out. Job done!"

"Murder done I fear, madam." Holmes shook his head. "This is Britain. We cannot have vigilante revenge here, it won't do at all. A proper fair trial and a fair sentence is the way."

"Ha! That's crap." Xena here began, I thought, to show her real personality; beginning with some startlingly profane language. "By all the Gods, we track a f . . .ing monster that Tartarus would be proud of all over London, and when you finally meet him your only worry is about the proper manner of greeting him! I'da had the b . . . . .ds guts splashing over the floor before he could'a blinked."

"Enough with the guts, woman. I'm suffering here." Gabrielle whined in a low strained tone, as she up-ended the obviously empty teapot over her cup.

"Suffer then. Suffering strengthens the spirit. Didn't Aristotle say that somewhere?" Xena sneered this aside at her bowed companion with remarkable lack of sympathy.

"B . . . .r Aristotle." Gabrielle's mind, as much of it as was functioning, was clearly trained on more important matters. "Dr. Watson, pull that bell-pull thingy. I want more tea, and I want it _now_!"

"So what'd Moran have to say, then?" Xena made a brave effort to bring the conversation back to the important matter.

"He started by being rather aloof." Holmes unconsciously brought his hands up to his chin, fingers flat together, in a characteristic habit he had as he pondered the scene in his mind. "After some curiously meandering statements he eventually admitted that the man killed in the Piccadilly Circus mishap; you know, the man who shot at you and Gabrielle, was his second-in-command. The very fellow who had been present at the jetty when Moran threatened to let him shoot members of a Charity outing if he himself was harassed."

"Great!" This news seemed to please Xena immensely. "One dog less. Now we just need to bring the ring-leader to bay, then we can all go home."

"I wanna go home now."

This pleading statement, voiced with immense self-pity by our resident blonde casualty of her own unruly appetites, was roundly ignored by all. We had more important affairs taking up our attention.

As Xena turned to question Holmes further the door opened and the worthy Mrs Hudson made another entrance. She could hardly have arrived at a better time, for she carried a large silver platter on which was a third pot of steaming tea. Gabrielle looked up with bloodshot eyes, saw the medicinal brew, and almost screamed in ecstasy.

"Mrs H., you're a Goddess from Olympus." Gabrielle waved an imperious hand, ignoring us all in her turn. "Over here. They don't need tea; they're too busy chatting. Gimme! Here. Beside _me_. My cup's ready. Damn the milk—oh sorry, Mrs H.—Just lemme pour it myself. You're a Dryad of the forest; a—a—what are those people with wings, who fly around doin' good deeds to the righteous?"

"Angels?" I hazarded, at a guess.

"Yes, you're an angel, Mrs H." Gabrielle paused to take a long pull at her cup, before sitting back to stare at the ceiling with a look of rapture on her pale features. "That hit the spot. Thanks Mrs H."

"I think she's on the road to recovery." Xena darted over to hold the door for Mrs Hudson as she left with the empty pot on her tray. "Gabby, are ya with us or not?"

"Gimme a minute, woman. Gods, you're such a slave-driver." Gabrielle ostentatiously put a hand to her head and fondled her brow, as if gently massaging it. "I think—I think I might survive; just gimme another minute and lemme have another cup o' tea."

"Sorry for the interruption, Mr Holmes. Just carry on; she'll catch up when she comes back to life—as much of it as is left to her, I mean." Xena again smiled somewhat unconcernedly; even though Gabrielle favoured her companion with a remark so grossly vulgar I couldn't possibly allude to it in these pages.

"Well, the gist of what Colonel Moran had to say was rather personal. To us all, I mean." Holmes finished raising his eyebrows disapprovingly at the late words of our unashamed blonde Amazon and glanced at the rest of us. "He intimated that his patience was exhausted; that he was rather busy in these concluding days before the finale of his great plan; and that from now on he regarded us all as enemies whom he was determined to erase as and when the opportunity arose."

"What on earth was he standing there telling you all this for, Mr Holmes?" Xena shook her head in disbelief. "He really must be mad."

"Oh, mad certainly." Holmes agreed with a nod. "But also somewhat constrained by his own warped idea of the gentlemanly Rules guiding Society."

"Whatd'ya mean?" Xena, like myself, was none the wiser.

"He appears to have a curious outlook on his own personal understanding of what he terms the '_Rules of Engagement_'." The great detective smiled coldly as he ruminated on the depths to which madness can drive its victims. "He told me that he certainly meant to kill us all; but that merely doing so out of the blue, so to speak, would not be fair. He wanted us all to know that he was on our trail and that—like a tiger hunt in the forests of India—he meant to stalk us one by one and send us to oblivion with his trusty rifle. He thought it only fair that we should all be aware of the unstoppable Nemesis hounding our footsteps. Then he raised his hat; remarked on the damned awful rainy night; passed along into the shadows of Wapping High Street, and was gone once more. That was the last I saw of him."

"Gods, that's what I call a prime opportunity missed." Xena spoke in a discontented growl as she came over to sit beside Gabrielle; where she unceremoniously prised the teapot from the blonde-haired girl's grasp and poured herself a cup. "I'da had about six different opportunities to kill the damned wretch. Ya really gotta think about grasping your irons when they're hot y'know, Holmes!"

"Gimme that pot back. _I'm_ drinkin' this tea." Gabrielle was obviously still concentrating on the important matters in life, as she leaned over and grabbed the container of heavenly nectar back into her possession. "Take it away again and _you'll_ know all about Nemesis, lady!"

"So what should our next step be then, Holmes?" I asked this important question with interest: it seemed that the game was now most assuredly afoot.*

"There isn't really much we _can_ do, except be extra-vigilant and hope that we are successful in apprehending him before the actual day of the Ceremony in Manchester." Holmes waved a hand in the air in a nervous gesture. "Having to take a train there, along with the Queen, is absolutely the last resort. We must be able to act conclusively before that."

As we contemplated these points there came another banging on the street-door, and a minute later Markham entered the room to join our happy group, with his shabby bowler in hand.

"How do, folks. Nice bright day terday, eh."

"Go away, Markham, an' take your Gods-damned bright day with you!" Our blonde victim of circumstance, and a reckless intake of strong wine yesterday evening, looked at the stocky figure with loathing; her eyes giving away the fact her vision was still somewhat unfocussed. "G'way!"

Unfazed (I think he was coming to understand Gabrielle's manners the longer he knew her) Markham stared closely at the injured party with a curiously knowledgeable light in his eye. Then he turned to Xena with a remarkably brisk tone in his voice.

"What was it she drank again, ma'am?"

"Er, wine; that red wine." Xena was taken a little aback by the question. "What did you say it was called, Doctor?"

"Chianti." I found myself addressing my reply more to Markham than Xena.

"Ah, nasty stuff when yer ain't used ter it."

The short shabbily dressed man then proceeded, with no sign of embarrassment, to glance over the table's contents before picking up a salt-cellar and a small silver teaspoon. He totally disregarded Gabrielle's evil stare, and her determined grip on the teapot, with as much firmness as Xena herself had done. He then turned to me and asked a couple of further questions.

"Have you got such a thing as a bottle o' Worcester Sauce, Doctor? Lea an' Perrins* fer choice." He glanced over at the sideboard against the far wall. "I'll need one o' those sherry glasses, if it's alright. An' is there sich a thing as a lemon in the 'ouse, d'yer know?"

For the next two minutes we all sat spellbound as Markham went about his mysterious, not to say mystical, preparations. He darted to a corner of the room where his eagle eye had spotted a bottle of milk cooling in the shade, and bringing all his materials to the table sat down to mix his concoction. I found myself recalling the Witches Scene from the Scottish play, and wondering if his ingredients were of purer quality than theirs.* Then, quite suddenly, he appeared to have finished his brewing activities.

"Here yer are lady, get that down yer throat." With which uncouth instruction he placed the glass in front of our erstwhile casualty. We all, of course, could have told him what the reaction would be.

"Damn your drink, Markham." Gabrielle obviously felt this was a Heaven sent opportunity to relieve her feelings. "Who gives a camel's turd! Drink it yourself an' welcome. Ha!"

"Drink it—_now_, ma'am!" Markham moved the glass close to Gabrielle's hand; and when she looked up at him in astonishment he stared straight back unflinchingly into her glaring eyes. "Yer'll be surprised. Go on, drink it."

Caught in such a position, with no way out except downright physical attack, Gabrielle gave in with a snarl that showed her white teeth; after which she raised the glass with its dark-coloured liquid and downed it in one ferocious gulp. Then she flung the empty glass onto the table, before looking at Markham again contemptuously—but not for long.

An expression of shock suddenly overtook her features and she grasped violently at her chest, as if having breathing difficulties. This was followed instantly by her drawing several deep breaths, as she wriggled on her chair as if in physical pain. Then a strangled gasp came from her lips; to be followed a few seconds later by another, after which she slowly collapsed so that her head lay unmoving on the tablecloth for several seconds.

I was just beginning to wonder if she had actually fainted when Gabrielle raised her head and sat upright once more. Not just upright, but with a clear light in her green eyes as if seeing the world sharp and clear for the first time that morning. She made one last deep inhalation of breath then gazed around at her hypnotised audience as if she was a new woman.

"Great Gods in Olympus! I feel great!" She transferred her gaze to the saviour of her health and happiness. "Markham, what in Hades' name was in that? It's brought me back to life. I can see clearly now."

"Ah well, ma'am. "The old prize-fighter actually simpered with pleasure at the success of his restorative. "That'd be telling. I got it handed down from me old Ma. She knew a lot about herbs and ointments an' things like that. But that's her best recipe—don't think its ever failed!"

"Gods, it certainly worked on me. Thanks." Gabrielle rose, somewhat shakily, to stand beside her resuscitator. "Markham, I was in for a day in Tartarus, and you saved me. I'm grateful. And if you want to know how grateful—I'm thinkin' marriage at once and live happily ever after!"

"Here, that's my—our thing, Gabrielle." Xena stepped back into the fray with an injured tone of voice. "Give it a rest, girl."

"Oh alright—but just because I've known you longer than Markham, Xena." Gabrielle looked at her companion with a rekindling of kindliness in her eyes. "But you'll have to get that recipe off him, you know. I can't live without it."

"Yeah, I bet!"

"What was it you were all talking about? Something to do with Moran?" The blonde-haired Amazon was so much improved she obviously felt impelled to rejoin our discussion with a clear mind. "What about that great plan I came up with yesterday evening?"

"Oh God!" Xena turned pale.

"Oh God!" I felt a sinking in my stomach that made me want to sit down quickly.

"Oh God!" Markham too was appalled by the return of her memory of the night before. "Maybe I shouldn't have given 'er the tonic!"

"No, no. Wait a minute." Gabrielle furrowed her brow a moment, then looked up at her trembling audience sadly. "I've forgotten. I know it was such a great plan; an' now I can't remember a damn thing about it!"

"Thank the Go—I mean, isn't that just always the way." Xena actually swept a hand across her sweating brow in relief. "Ah well darling, we'll all just have to come up with another plan. Not as good as yours was, of course—but something that'll do the trick just as well, eh."

"Hmmm." Was Sherlock Holmes's only comment on the matter.

—OOO**—**

**Notes—**

1. Meerschaum. This is a soft white, grey, or cream coloured mineral most generally found in Turkey. It was, and still is, mostly used to make tobacco-pipe stems and bowls as it can be readily carved.

2. '_Town of Ramsgate_'. An old-established pub situated some distance further upstream from the '_Prospect of Whitby_', both in Wapping.

3. '_The games afoot_'. Holmes says this to Watson in the '_Adventure of the Abbey Grange_'.

4. Lea and Perrins Worcester Sauce. This liquid sauce was first produced and sold in 1838 by John Wheeley Lea and William Henry Perrins, dispensing chemists from Broad Street, Worcester, England.

5. Witches Scene. Shakespeare's '_Macbeth_' has long been referred to as '_the Scottish play_' to guard against a perceived curse on using the title off-stage. In the play the three witches concoct their own brew from far nastier ingredients than Markham used.

—OOO**—**


	15. A Difference of Opinion

—OOO**—**

**Chapter 15.**

"**A Difference of Opinion"**

Wednesday—16th May, 1894.

"Mr Mycroft Holmes!" Mrs Hudson introduced our visitor at the living-room door with all the pomp of an official introducing the Lord Mayor. She dearly loved Mycroft's mysterious connection with the Foreign Office. Sherlock's brother was a large man; slightly taller than the detective and far more stocky. It had been said he had the knack of making even a ballroom appear small by his mere presence.

The time was now just before midday, and Gabrielle had almost fully recovered from her earlier delicate state; wholly as a result of Markham's amazing restorative brew, the recipe for which she was still assiduously trying to pry from him.

"Good morning everyone." Mycroft's somewhat reserved nod took in the room's occupants while he gave his overcoat, walking-cane, and top hat into Mrs Hudson's care to take away to whatever mysterious corner she kept these things.

"You have arrived at that most unfortunate point in time exactly between breakfast and lunch, Mycroft." Sherlock did the honours, waving a languid hand in the direction of the rather untidy table. "I fear there is only tea and buttered bread available. And Miss Gabrielle has already disposed of most of the tea."

"Exactly the food that fed our glorious soldiers in the far corners of the Empire—or so our old nanny always told us, eh, Sherlock!" Mycroft cast an appreciative eye towards the plates then sadly turned to lower his bulk into the offered easy chair. "However, mighty affairs of State hold our attention. I am not happy with the meeting you had with the indomitable Moran last night. It might—if I may say so—have been handled better!"

"Yeah, I said that too—but nobody listened." Xena grunted from her stance by the bow-window.

"Having the gutters of London flow with blood—even of so deserved a criminal as Colonel Moran—is hardly politic." Sherlock addressed both his brother and Xena with some asperity. "We can't have that sort of thing in the metropolis. Remember the Gordon Riots;* and Peterloo!"*

"No." Xena shook her head coldly.

"No." Gabrielle put in her supportive pennyworth with another shake of the head.

"Peterloo?" Markham scratched his chin musingly. "When I were a nipper I knew an old 'un who was there at the gathering in Manchester, when he were young 'isself. People knocked down like skittles in a bowling alley by the cavalry horses when they charged, 'e said!"

"Um, that's as may be. However Sherlock, I begin to feel that matters are rapidly approaching the point where gentlemanly conduct will need to be set aside; again!" Mycroft continued unabashed, slowly looking round the room at everyone present. "Remember whose life is at stake—and the consequences to the Empire."

"As far as I'm concerned the gloves are already off." Xena aimed a chilly stare at the civil servant. "Next time I meet Moran will be the last time he meets anyone, I guarantee it!"

"This is hardly—." Sherlock began to argue, but was cut off by his brother's quick retort.

"If either lady meets the abominable Colonel I am sure there will be a—confrontation—of some significance." Mycroft paused, as if pleased with his choice of words. "In which event I believe the concept of self-defence covers all possible outcomes. There would certainly be no criminal charges brought, of that I am certain."

"Really, Mycroft." Sherlock was not amused. "I sometimes think your control of Governmental affairs behind the scenes is affecting your judgement."

"Time is short, and we must look on this business with an air of reality, Sherlock." The political mandarin shook his head slowly. "There is no time left for the Marquis of Queensberry Rules. We need results. I fear this is no longer an affair of ratiocination; but of brute force."

"Gabrielle and I can do brute force; it's our forte." Xena stood straight beside the tall window; the backlight almost seeming to outline her form like a halo, as she looked from Mycroft to Sherlock. "Moran's threat to seek us out is just what we need. Let him get within 50 feet of either Gabrielle or myself and he won't walk away this time."

"Have you any idea of his latest hideaway, then?" Mycroft took in the assembled group with an alert gleam in his grey eyes as he directed this question to his brother. "It's about time we hunted him down to his lair; his _real_ lair, that is!"

Sherlock crossed to a tall cupboard against the far wall and returned with a rolled-up map in his hand. Opening this he laid it partially on the edge of the cluttered writing desk, held in place by an odd volume of '_Bradshaw's Railway Guide_', so it hung down in front of us.

"As you can see this map shows central London." He gazed round at his audience with an almost nonchalant raising of his eyebrow. "Apart from conversing with the villain yesterday evening I had earlier searched through an appalling number of back street drinking dens in the environs of Wapping. It is sometimes surprising how much can be learned from just listening to certain people; at certain places; at certain times of the night. That, and a few carefully worded questions to the right individuals, has allowed me to reach a conclusion on the matter of Colonel Moran's hideout."

"What? You've found out where he is?" Gabrielle perked up visibly at the dining-table where she was sitting beside Markham. "What's to stop us running him to ground right now, like a fox in its den?"

"Merely the fact that he isn't a fool." Sherlock at this point somewhat unwisely adopted the sarcastic tone he usually used when casting aside uninteresting or worthless suggestions.

Politeness was never his strong point; especially when deeply interested in a case. As a result I noticed Gabrielle frown, and look at the great detective with something less than awe. Xena, on her part, straightened and advanced a pace or two into the centre of the room. I judged it time to cast a little oil on troubled waters.

"I think what Holmes meant was there are circumstances which probably hinder such direct action at the moment." I looked significantly at Sherlock as I spoke, but he didn't react in any way to my hint. "There _is_ a reason for not going straight at him—isn't there, Holmes?"

"What? Oh, simply timing, Watson." He shrugged his shoulders as if the answer ought to be obvious to everyone. "Moran only uses the house at a particular time of day. He has several places, allowing him to switch between them at a moment's notice. I have discovered one of these hideouts, and the time of day he will probably make an appearance there. That's all."

"Well, it's something." Mycroft pursed his lips and frowned as he contemplated this news. "So what do you mean to do?"

"It will be wise to use Inspector Lestrade's fine body of police-officers." Sherlock gave one of his tight-lipped smiles. "Though only a few will be needed, otherwise the villains might vanish into thin air as a consequence."

"Where is this place he's goin'ta hide in?" Xena came over to stand beside the detective, and the map.

Holmes picked up one of his spare violin-bows from the cluttered desk and pointed out a location on the chart. The place in question was halfway along Wapping Wall, still surprisingly near '_The Prospect of Whitby_'.

"Wapping does seem to be the centre of his operations. Possibly because it is so handily placed. It borders the Lower Pool, on the river, as you know." Holmes spoke with a certain cold off-handedness which characterised his method of explaining facts. "The earlier debacle at Belsize Park being merely a decoy. This house, No.43, has a small flight of un-named steps at its left side leading down to the river foreshore. So he has a quick escape route to hand."

"He could arrive, as well as leave, from a small boat." Gabrielle had joined her companion and was now bending to studying the map closely. "Slippery kinda guy, ain't he."

"If by that term you mean '_devious_', then yes, madam." Mycroft nodded. "Otherwise the estimable Inspector Lestrade would have had him by the collar long ago."

"When will Moran be there today?" Gabrielle's tone was tense and quiet.

"Probably about three in the afternoon." Holmes turned to favour the short figure at his side with an impassive gaze.

"What's the best plan, d'you think, Xena?" Gabrielle glanced at her companion with something of the light of battle in her green eyes.

"From what we saw when we were there last time that street's pretty busy during the day." Xena shrugged coolly. "Should give us good cover. I figure we could creep quietly up to the front door, then bust in an' wreak havoc."

"Works for me, Xena." Gabrielle nodded, as if perfectly used to such tactics. "When should we start?"

"Ladies, this is impossible." Holmes, finally at the end of his patience, stared coldly at both women. "Now you appear ready to launch a—a private war on Moran; is that your plan? And just what weapons are at your disposal for this ludicrous endeavour, may I ask?"

For answer followed one of the most frightening moments of my life. Gabrielle, still standing by Holmes's side, bent to reach for the tops of her boots which were visible below the remarkably high hem of her coarse woollen skirt. In an instant she rose with two evilly long daggers in her hands. Without hesitation, or any apparent attempt to aim, she flung these weapons with surprising strength. The first flew the entire length of the long study to embed itself in the arm of the chintz-covered easy chair where Mycroft sat, only missing his fingers by the merest fraction; its haft quietly vibrating. The other, as if by magic, appeared with a solid _thunk_ on the mantelpiece above the fireplace; where I was resting my own arm. The weapon embedded itself in the pile of unanswered correspondence resting on the left side of the mantelpiece, where it joined the jack-knife which Holmes commonly used to skewer his bills in place.* I may say my own fingers were less than three inches from the dagger's edge; while Gabrielle stood some twenty feet away across the room. I believe both Mycroft and I stopped breathing for at least the next minute.

Not to be outdone Xena pulled back the right side of her loose waist-length jacket to reveal that curious implement which had earlier been described as a chakram. I was still perfectly unaware of its potential, but saw Holmes make some kind of rudimentary move towards her; though far too late. She quickly raised the innocent-looking metal ring to head height then, with a perfectly ghastly and paralysing scream, flung it the length of the room. It made a high-pitched whistling noise as it flew. Its first impact was against a teacup standing on the table close by Markham's hand. The ring was flying vertically and hit the cup with no diminution in speed. Instead of shattering, the cup fell apart in two separate pieces; cleanly cut as if by a saw. The chakram then seemed to change direction in flight and hit an old flintlock pistol displayed on the far wall. The horse-pistol shattered into a thousand pieces, sending shrapnel everywhere, while the chakram seemed merely to bounce then continue its course unimpeded. It next flew across to the other side of the room where it splintered a, thankfully empty, oil-lamp into fragments before returning in the direction of Markham once more.

He, with remarkable aplomb (or perhaps like myself he was simply frozen with fear) sat unmoving as the evil weapon approached. This time it literally passed within two inches of his face, exploding into dust a small cigar he held clenched between his teeth. Still not done the chakram now rebounded off the side wall; crossed the width of the room to ricochet off the opposite wall, then whistled back in Holmes's direction: towards whom it now appeared to be exactly aimed. There was no time for anyone to move; even to a person with such lightning reflexes as Holmes. But just in the instant before it seemed fated to hit him Xena's hand shot out and clenched the speeding weapon in a strong grip. She then quietly stepped back twirling the metal ring between her fingers and, looking round at her audience, showed her white teeth in one of the most savage grins I had ever seen on a human-being's face.

"Not bad, but I can do better—can't I, Gabrielle?"

"Damn straight, Xena." The blonde Amazon nodded in reply, as if well-used to this kind of display, while she looked from Mycroft to Sherlock. "Just give us the chance and we guarantee Moran'll be mincemeat before the day's out. If he don't surrender, of course!"

—OOO**—**

Such an exhibition could only end one way—in chaos. For a few minutes the only voices heard were those of Holmes, Mycroft, Xena, and Gabrielle—all raised in varying levels of argument or criticism. For my part I quietly executed that most useful of military movements—a formal advance to the rear in full order—where I sat at the table beside Markham, while the Generals argued over future manoeuvres.

"You did not seem much put out by Xena's weapon, Markham." I looked at the square-set man, with his head of close-cropped grey hair. "I was shocked, for my own part, when Gabrielle's dagger nearly took my fingers off."

"Ah well sir, you'd be amazed at the variety o' weapons that've come in my direction over the years." He scratched his head musingly. "I don't take note o' knives in back alleys in my youth—that's jest normal life, so ter speak. It all began t'get interesting after I joined the Army twenty years ago. I wound up in West Africa, fightin' the Ashanti. You ain't really bin in a fight till you've had assegais an' knobkerries an' whatnot aimed at yer brains. Some very nasty hand-to-hand fightin', sir. I suppose you'll know what I mean."

"Yes, I've seen some bad sights." My thoughts went back for a moment to painful memories of my military service in Afghanistan some years previously. "Though the Afghans preferred to fight at a distance—with long-barrelled rifles. I know from experience. So, a chakram is all in the day's work, eh?"

"Jest about. Though I'd prefer it were my enemies throwing 'em, not my friends." Markham squinted at me with a sharp look of intelligence in his eyes, and lowered his voice to a whisper. "That lady—Xena—she don't seem entirely _compass mentis_, do she, sir."*

"Er, well—perhaps a little enthusiastic." I prevaricated in my answer, though in fact I was beginning to think much the same.

Our conversation was here interrupted by the arrival of Gabrielle who stood beside the table, smiling happily at all and sundry.

"Well, that works things out just dandy." She nodded her head as if pleased with the outcome of the argument that had just come to a close. "Now we can really get to grips with Moran."

While she spoke the rest of the group had made their way over to join us. There were a variety of facial expressions on show. Mycroft went past to settle himself in his easy char again; where he sat morosely examining the sai-dagger still embedded in the chair's arm-rest. Sherlock stood by the table rather white-faced, but generally in a better temper I judged, than previously; while Xena stood beside Gabrielle with another, rather friendlier, grin. All seemed sweetness and light once more between them all.

"The plan—our plan—it has been decided, will be to ask Lestrade to provide a police-launch on the river." Holmes spoke with a note of relief in his voice. "If Markham can inveigle one of his, ah, friends into donating another small boat that will be excellent. Preferably with an engine, that is?"

"Oh aye sir." Markham nodded, as if the question held no problem. "I know's someone who'll fall over 'isself to lend us a very nice little steamboat. There's lot'sa people owes me favours!"

"That's fine, Markham." Sherlock nodded in appreciation. "We intend to send Xena and Gabrielle in the front door—when we've ascertained Moran is actually in residence. Then Watson, Markham, and I will assault the rear of the building; with Lestrade's boat lying-off out in the river as backup. We shall all be armed, in our various ways; and we shall then see what occurs. Our intention is to take the villain alive if at all possible."

Here he looked pointedly at Xena, who stared back into his eyes with a cold reserve, though with no outright opposition. Sherlock was about to continue, when the study door again opened to reveal Mrs Hudson performing her role as butler once more.

"Mr Haggard, sir." She stood aside to let the sunburned form of our friend enter, then closed the door behind her as she left.

Rider Haggard seemed remarkably pleased with life in general, and himself in particular; judging by the wide grin he exhibited. For my part I was just about fed up with people who grinned and showed their teeth—it so often seemed in direct opposition to their real feelings! He also had a long soft leather case hung over his shoulder, which seemed rather heavy.

"What've ya got there?" Xena cut to the chase, immediately after he had said his hello's to everybody.

"Oh, I thought it time I brought my stock in trade along." Haggard smiled as he laid the long case on the table and proceeded to open its cover.

From the brown leather container he extracted first one, then a second, rifle which he laid lovingly on the table before us.

"More artillery." Sherlock's remark held a wealth of sarcasm, but he didn't pursue the matter further.

"What's this?" Gabrielle picked up the thinner barrelled and lighter of the two weapons, handling it with remarkable dexterity.

"That is a Winchester 1892 model, chambered for .44 ammunition." There was a note of approval in Haggard's voice. "It can take down buffalo—and I've used it for such! A very fine weapon."*

"And this thing?" Xena sounded more reserved as she in turn picked up the heftier of the guns, at the owner's invitation. "Feels heavy, and seems to have-what d'you call it-a larger bore?"

"That's my pride and joy, I admit." Haggard regarded the weapon fondly as Xena hoisted it to her shoulder and sighted along the barrel. "A Holland & Holland .577 Nitro Express. Fires a newly developed round. The manufacturers were kind enough to give me this as a prototype, to see how it works. I thought, with Colonel Moran as my likely prey, I ought to bring it along. It's my elephant gun!"*

I've often thought how potent silence can sometimes be. You, dear reader, may have yourself experienced that kind of stillness which suddenly pervades a room so intensely and dramatically that a piece of paper, fluttering along the pavement outside, can be distinctly heard—though the room window is firmly closed? Such was the silence that now enveloped our group at Haggard's words. He had every intention of going after Colonel Moran—_with an elephant gun!_

—OOO**—**

Notes:

1. 'Gordon Riots'. The Gordon Riots of 1780 were an anti-Catholic protest against the 'Papists Act 1778'. This Act of Parliament was meant to give Catholics more freedom, but was violently opposed. Lord George Gordon became the President of the 'Protestant Association' in 1780 to force the repeal of this legislation. Riots ensued, and on the 7th June in London the army was called out. About 285 people were shot dead, with another 200 wounded. See Wiki.

2. 'Peterloo'. The Peterloo Massacre (or Battle of Peterloo) occurred at St Peter's Field, Manchester, England, on 16 August 1819, when cavalry charged into a crowd of 60,000–80,000 that had gathered to demand the reform of parliamentary representation. 15 people were killed and 400–700 were injured. The massacre was given the name Peterloo in ironic comparison to the Battle of Waterloo, which had taken place four years earlier. See Wiki.

3. Jack-knife and correspondence. See '_The Musgrave Ritual_'.

4. Compass mentis. 'compos mentis'—of sound mind. 'Non compos mentis'—not of sound mind.

5. Winchester 1892 model. A real rifle, with a great reputation.

6. Holland & Holland. A real gun manufacturers.

—OOO**—**


	16. The Afternoon Mail and River Thoughts

—OOO**—**

**Chapter 16.**

'**The Afternoon Mail, and River-Thoughts'**

Wednesday afternoon—16th May, 1894.

"A weapon that can kill an elephant at one blow! Isn't that over-reacting just a little, even against the Colonel?" Gabrielle looked at Haggard solemnly as he accepted the gun in question back from Xena.

"Well, after thinking about it, perhaps something more practical might be in order. Another Winchester, maybe." Haggard placed the heavy Holland & Holland rifle on the nearby side-table with a rueful expression. "Mind you, given the chance it would've blown him clean in half."*

"After which the bullet would've gone on through the rest of the building and across the next street; killing everyone in its path." Xena paused on saying this, obviously conjuring up a mental picture of just such an event. "Not that I'm against it, don't get me wrong, I love the idea. Maybe I could buy one an' take it back to, er, Greece with me?"

Gabrielle looked curiously embarrassed at this and gently took the sleeve of her friend to pull her away from the table on which the two rifles lay.

"Maybe we're gettin' a little ahead of ourselves." Gabrielle gave her companion a meaningful glance. "That ain't goin' to be exactly possible, Xena. You know, takin' into account the way we got here and will need to return!"

"Yeah, I suppose." Xena looked gloomily at the blonde-haired woman by her side. "A gal can dream, though!"

Haggard went over to the dining-table to join Markham, Mycroft, and Sherlock; all of whom were now sitting together. Mycroft, meanwhile, took this opportunity to rise and cross to the door.

"I shall have to return to the F.O. now. Matters of national security, y'know." He nodded to one and all as he opened the door. "Don't bother calling Mrs Hudson. I'll collect m'hat and coat downstairs. Don't forget to keep me informed of progress, Sherlock."

"Hey, I'll come along with ya." Xena stepped out the door behind the large man. "I need t'visit that—what did Mrs Hudson call it—Ladies Rest Room downstairs. Back in a jiffy, Gabs."

The two went out, closing the door behind them, to various shades of embarrassment amongst the men present considering her explanation. We could hear their steps descending the stairs while Xena's deep voice boomed in the hallway as she held Mycroft in converse.

"Wish she wouldn't call me Gabs." Gabrielle shrugged her shoulders as she took a seat at the dining-table, alongside the others. "What's a '_jiffy_', by the way?"

"A moment. A few seconds." Haggard stroked his short beard as he thought about the question. "Like saying '_back in a flash_'."

"Humph!" Gabrielle clearly wasn't impressed by her friend's grasp of the colloquial tongue. "If she learns any more fancy slang she'll need to re-learn Greek when she goes home!"

—OOO**—**

When Xena shortly returned from her visit to the Ladies Rest Room, conveniently situated on the ground floor for the benefit of female clients, she held a small bundle in her hand.

"Mrs Hudson asked me to bring up your noon mail. Mr Holmes." Xena placed the pile of loose envelopes on the table beside the seated detective.

"Ah, the lifeblood of my day." Holmes rose and strode to the mantelpiece where he grasped the jack-knife transfixing the pile of older correspondence lying there, before returning to his seat. "I usually only share the contents of my letters with Watson here; but they may offer some interesting vignettes of life in the City to you ladies and gentlemen, if you care to listen."

He took the first in the heap, slitting it open with the blade of the jack-knife which he commonly employed in this way for all his mail.

'Oh dear, the usual, I fear." He snorted in disgust as he quickly scanned the contents. "The Honourable Mrs Hidgens, of Poplar,* requests that I immediately drop everything and organise a City-wide search for Mr Foo-chin, her lost Pekingese dog. She will pay £5 on recovery of the foul beast, which I may receive on my applying to her Butler when successful. She requests that, as she leaves for Rimini in three days, I waste as little of her valuable time as possible and therefore find the animal post-haste. These kind of women are just impossible. Don't you find women impossible, Watson? Bah!"

He tore the offending missive into tiny pieces which he flung broadcast about him; the fragments falling to the carpet like flakes of snow. The following letter was in a deep blue envelope with the address in an ornate script.

"Next, Mr Jeremiah Barclay of Ponders End wishes to inform me of the peculiar activities of his younger brother Hezekiah—residing in Barnet—whom, he writes, is in the process of instituting a pogrom; against the writer, Jeremiah, that is.* Hmm, morning papers mysteriously missing; bottles of milk, delivered to his doorstep by the milkman, with their tops torn open and the cream drunk when he opens his door to retrieve said articles. Inexplicable advertisements delivered in his mail offering guaranteed successful replacement of lost hair to middle-aged men; he, he tells me in florid language, having been bald since early manhood! Obviously, he concludes, the work of a jealous younger brother." Holmes grunted sharply and raised his eyes to the ceiling for a moment, as if overcome by the banality of it all. "Wishes me to tell him what the country is coming to? Will not stand for such inhuman treatment a moment longer. Determined to institute proceedings in Local Magistrates Court without fail. Orders me to send a strongly worded letter to said miscreant Hezekiah threatening the usual legal retributions. Will pay costs on successful outcome. Believes that, if I hide in bushes in his large garden all night on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday inclusive during next week, I cannot fail of gaining evidence against the guilty party. Helpfully sends leaflet printing the timetable for local trains to Ponders End. Concludes by giving his opinion that the latest news from the North-West Frontier only shows the pathetic weakness of the current British Government, and goes on to explain—in three long paragraphs—what his own methods of bringing sweetness and light and a strong British administration to the Pathans would consist of.* Signs himself A British Patriot. Good God! He has at least supplied the train timetable to Ponders End so, Watson, there only remains your allowing me to borrow your Service revolver and I can dispose of Mr Jeremiah Barclay once and for all. Surely an action which can only be seen as a benefit to Human Society?"

Holmes tossed the offending missive into the fireplace contemptuously and picked up the third letter in the pile before him. A white envelope, with an address obviously written by a young lady of some education, though in somewhat of an agitated hurry. Clearly having been taken by hand to the local pillar-box yesterday afternoon, as evidenced by the slightly crinkled and spotted nature of the envelope—it having rained quite heavily all through yesterday afternoon. Oh dear, I fear I am showing signs of having been influenced by the methods of my more famous friend!

"Humph!" Holmes, meanwhile, continued morosely. "It is Spring, Watson, and that most obnoxious of the Gods—Love, or Aphrodite as I believe the Classical Greeks knew her—has reared her intrusive head. Miss Ann Arbuthnot, writing from Tooting Bec, does not know What To Do Next! Wishes to know What Men Are Coming To? Surmises the answer will Not Be Inspiring. Asks me why, if he really loved her, Bertram told her that her wide-brimmed plovers-nest hat with peacock's feathers was A Diabolical Liberty! Wishes to know Why All Men Are Stupid. Goes on to elucidate, in minute detail, some—let me see,—five instances of Bertram's failure as a Troubadour of Love and Knight Errant of Romance. Finishes by contemplating the palpable fact that If Love Slapped Bertram On The Face With A Wet Haddock He Would Not Recognise The God's Presence. Closes by offering the hypothesis that If Men Could Recognise Ideal Love They Would Not Have Wavy Brown Hair, Blue Eyes, Large Ears, And A Thick Moustache That Would Make Nietzsche Jealous!* Signs herself the Lady of Shalott's Sister!* Hmm, no questions about any mystery or threat. Nothing about worries or strange behaviour. Stains around the area of her signature which look remarkably like tears of frustration and righteous anger. Seems merely to have written to me in annoyance in order to relieve herself of a mighty injustice instigated by the said reprobate Bertram and his dubious sartorial taste. No doubt they have made up by now, and are already making plans to attend Lady Clancannon's Ball in Leicester Square tonight, with Ann in her latest finery—calculated to knock all the other young ladies into a cocked hat with jealousy! Sometimes I wonder why I bother, Watson."

Ignoring both Gabrielle's uncontrolled sniggering, and Markham's unconvincing coughing into a large red-spotted handkerchief, he picked up another letter; which, however, he did not open immediately but instead examined with rather more care than the preceding ones.

"This communication, on the other hand, offers a subject of some interest. Note the pale yellow envelope. Persons who favour that insipid shade generally cannot make their minds up either to stick with plain white, or dash heroically into the vivid fields of blue writing paper. Note the address is in dark-blue ink, while the return address on the envelope back-flap is in black ink. The stamp has been placed nowhere near the edge of the envelope and is badly slanted—certain sign of a hesitant and unsure nature. A somewhat smudged post-mark allows us to pin-point the origin as South Norwood. The handwriting itself varies rather frighteningly between vertical strokes, and others slightly forward-sloping. The 221b of the address has been changed to 222b, then back again; making rather a mess of the whole thing. One must congratulate the postal authorities on divining the correct destination!" Holmes's lips trembled in that quick movement which did double duty as both sneer or weak smile; depending on circumstances. "Clearly the writer is a person of nervous character; often of two minds; and not a lucid thinker. One might expect almost anything from such an individual: though, surprisingly enough, in this case definitely a man! Let us see,—what does he require of a consulting-detective? Oh Heavens! '_Dear Mr. Morgan, I was most satisfied with the last order of Cumberland sausages which you kindly delivered last Thursday. While continuing with my usual order of half a dozen eggs and six rashers of bacon every other day may I request you also include a fine 3 pound weight chicken this coming Saturday, as I am expecting family guests from the country. Do you still have those delicious Duck's eggs? Yours faithfully, Septimus Allardyce._' My God, the fool has sent his butcher's letter to me; and, no doubt, a detailed account of one of the most abstruse, important, and interesting cases it would ever have been my good fortune to be associated with to his butcher! Well, from now on, I fancy, the successful Mr Morgan can henceforth style himself '_Family Butcher and Consulting Detective_'. And much good may it do him, I'm sure!"

Holmes pitched the mis-directed letter from him with distaste, taking no notice when it bounced off the tea-pot, after narrowly missing Xena's arm, to finish its flight transfixed in the butter-dish. He, meanwhile, took up another letter with little sign of enthusiasm.

"Hmm, a rather hasty and excitable short note from Mr John Scott Eccles, of Esher. Written on ruled notepaper, but his words miss most of the lines. He declares that something grotesque has happened to him at a place named '_Wisteria Lodge_', He spent the night it seems, a day ago, as a guest of his friend Aloysius Garcia at the said Lodge; but on waking yesterday morning found himself sole occupant of an empty house.* He is afraid something dreadful may have occurred, and asks for my assistance; the local estate agent having told him the house's rent was fully paid up. He intends descending on me willy nilly this afternoon. Well, ahem, there _may_ be aspects of interest in this." Holmes scratched his chin as he leaned over the letter, giving it the full benefit of his concentrated attention. "Perhaps, Watson, if you accompany the ladies and Haggard to Wapping I shall stay to learn more of the distracted Mr Eccles's affairs. I shall, of course, join you as soon thereafter as may be."

Holmes showed no inclination to continue with the remainder of his mail, which he pushed to one side while he further studied the last epistle.

"Well, one real letter out of five—is that pretty much par for the course, Mr Holmes?" There was the slightest smile on Xena's full lips as she asked this question.

"What? Oh no, in fact the general outcome is more often nearer one in fifty." Holmes made a disparaging gesture with one long-fingered hand as he continued re-reading the note. "Watson here will agree—won't you, Watson?"

Being brought in at such short notice I found myself humming and hawing for a moment while I got my bearings.

"There is something in what Holmes says, ladies." I had to agree with my friend eventually. "Most of the correspondence we receive is of a, ah, most unimportant or common nature. Those letters of significance which bear on serious matters could be counted on the fingers of one hand over a period of, say, three months or so."

"So your cases are more the exception than the rule?" Xena looked at the bowed form of the still intently occupied detective with some interest.

"Yes, we actually take far less cases per year than most people—or readers of the '_Strand_' magazine, come to that—realise." I paused here, on the edge of hinting at Holmes's relationship with the hypodermic needle; but caught myself in time. "The hiatus between cases sometimes leaves Holmes somewhat, er,—bored!"*

"I can imagine." Gabrielle nodded. "Oh well, isn't it about time we sorted ourselves out to head for the River? Can you really get someone to lend us a steamboat, Markham?"

"Oh yes, ma'am." The stocky man rose to his feet, where he stood of an equal height to Gabrielle. "I know someone who'll cough up a nice little launch as nice as ninepence. He's got a wharf on the Southwark bank, so he's far enough away from Wapping not ter arouse suspicions wiv the Colonel. We don't want the Colonel's suspicions arousing, yer know."

"Damn right there, Markham." Gabrielle nodded with all the energy and suppressed tension of an old warrior. "Let's get to it, then."

—OOO**—**

By the time we all—that is, Markham, Haggard, myself, Gabrielle, and Xena—had made our way to Southwark, via several expensive Hansom cabs, and Markham had actually squeezed the pretty launch he spoke of out of the unhappy but resigned wharf-owner, it was nearly two o'clock. Just as we were thinking of putting out into the heavily congested river traffic of the Thames, Holmes darted out of another cab and hastily jumped aboard almost at the last moment. We had one sailor aboard as crew, who remained at the rear of the boat where his attention was wholly taken up with servicing the coal-fired boiler and remarkably loud engine. There was a surprisingly slim and tall funnel rising into the air which billowed dark smoke without pause, of a truly nasty throat-catching harshness when the breeze blew it back across the low deck and hunched passengers taking up all the space in the bow. I might say that the boat, though steady and true-running, had a bulwark and thin hand-rail only about two feet above the fast-flowing water of the River; in fact the steady bow-wave very nearly reached the bulwark-top on either side of the bow as we ploughed across the thankfully smooth surface of the River.

It was a slow voyage, as we had to contend with the heavy traffic of a busy week-day afternoon. After a few minutes Xena took Gabrielle to the rear of the launch where, the dark warrior-like woman told us breezily, the motion wasn't as noticeable. Gabrielle was apparently already finding the experience less than enjoyable. But this at least gave me the chance to open a conversation with Holmes of a rather private nature.

"Have you had time over the last few days to come to any significant conclusions about our lady friends, Holmes?"

"I _have_ been considering the two ladies, Watson, and have made some interesting deductions."

"Which are, Holmes?"

"Observe Xena, to begin with." Holmes looked towards the figure standing in the stern. "She is tall, dark-haired, and athletic to a remarkable degree. Her manner is out-going and determined. In fact it has been my privilege to meet only one other woman with quite the same degree of _sang-froid_ as our esteemed lady-friend.* She stares directly into one's eyes when conversing with a steeliness which is almost frightening. Her right-hand palm shows calloused skin akin to someone who uses hand implements, or perhaps sword-like weapons, regularly. The tip of her thumb also shows this feature. Did you notice, Watson, some days ago when she took her outer jacket off, her blouse sleeve was rolled up showing a scar on her left forearm? And again on an earlier occasion, when she happened to raise the hem of her skirt slightly, another scar was noticeable on her lower left leg. Both made, I am certain, by edged weapons. She has been in several hand-to-hand combats in the course of her professional duties—whatever they may be."

"And what have you deduced about Miss Gabrielle?"

"She is altogether different from her companion." Holmes studied the lithe small figure as she stood by Xena's side, grasping the hand-rail tightly. "More delicate; less demonstrative; calmer in nature; probably more intellectual than her friend. You will recall that on the several occasions we have compared notes on Colonel Moran, over the last few days, the ladies' annotations have always been in Gabrielle's hand? I fear Xena may have little aptitude for writing. Both women have rather sun-burnt complexions. More so than usual, even in their native latitude of Greece. I assume they spend much time outside, for whatever reason. Gabrielle, though usually deferring to Xena, still has an air of authority; one might even say of command, in her own right. Both are, I believe, of some status in their differing social settings. You, of course, have noted her propensity to carry long-bladed daggers tied to her boots; a remarkable habit which I admit I am at a loss to explain, without entering the realms of Lewis Carroll, George MacDonald, or William Morris."*

"The outré, you mean?" I examined Holmes's sharp features. "The-what is it called—the lands of Phantasy! I hardly understand, Holmes."

"Perhaps I am over-elaborating." He shrugged. "Her expertise with those daggers is strange, none the less. Xena's capability with a chakram is, I fear, still fresh in my own mind, Watson! A _chakram_—a most curious weapon. I admit to being intrigued by her proficiency with it. All sorts of possible hypotheses—some rather silly—spring to mind. And both women seem to have no hesitation in engaging in even the most dangerous physical combat with men. Remember the fight in '_The Prospect of Whitby_'. Both played their parts to the hilt; Gabrielle even kicking the gigantic '_Bermondsey_' Henry through a window: an action I myself could not have performed!"

"Yes, I remember that vividly. An amazing exhibition. Never seen anything like it, in fact."

"Then, of course, there is their personal relationship." Holmes paused to glance at me, while lowering his voice considerably. "As a Doctor I am sure you will not be put out by the subject. I refer to their, ah, sexual affiliation. After having studied their interaction with each other over the past five days or so it seems perfectly clear to me they are both of the, er, Sapphic tendency!"

"Holmes, we are infringing on matters of an extremely delicate and—if I may so—private nature. Whatever direction their, ah, desires may take it is not our concern. In fact, if I may express my own opinion, the nature of a person's, er, tastes should be of no concern except to themselves." I grasped Holmes's arm to emphasise the point. "I acknowledge this may be something of a rather _laissez faire_ attitude on my part, in our present somewhat repressive times, but it is what I believe."

"Watson, I could not agree more." Sherlock looked at me with the ghost of a smile. "I fully concur with your analysis—let us say no more on the subject, then."

"Speaking of the fight at the public house reminds me of the one person who appears to be a friend of the ladies whom we have not had the privilege of being introduced to yet." I frowned as I recalled all that I could remember of the shadowy form who had so suddenly appeared, then vanished again, in '_The Prospect of Whitby_'. "A tall dark man, of a rather pugnacious nature."

"Ah, yes. The curious case of the man who constantly disappears!"

"Just so, Holmes. I forget his name—if I ever heard it, that is."

"_Ares_,—like the Greek God. Of War, you recollect, Watson?"

"Well, just as long as he isn't actually the God himself." I laughed shortly; although it came out more as a cough, when some heavy smoke blew around us at that precise moment. "Aauurph! Going by our past experiences, I wouldn't be surprised, mind you!"

"Ha, let us hope he is not in residence when Lestrade's police officers enter the house on Wapping Wall in a few minutes." Holmes turned to glance back at the two women, then looked at me again. "I wonder whether the ladies will excel themselves once more in hand-to-hand combat. You know, their weapons-skills and fighting proficiency begin to almost frighten me. If Xena finds it necessary to use that appalling chakram against Colonel Moran I wonder what the outcome will be, Watson!"

—OOO**—**

**Notes:**

1. The two shotguns in Guy Ritchie's film '_Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels_' were allegedly made by Holland & Holland.

2. Poplar. All the letters Holmes reads out originate from real London Districts.

3. Pogrom. A violent sustained attack against a minority group.

4. North-West Frontier. A former Province on the border between India and Afghanistan, including the Khyber Pass. The territory is now on the Pakistan-Afghanistan border. It was established as a Province in 1901 but was, I believe, referred to by this name for some years preceeding that date.

5. Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900). German philosopher. Owner of a truly staggering large moustache.

6. '_The Lady of Shalott_'. Tragic ballad-poem by Lord Tennyson (1809-1892).

7. '_The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge_' is a real Holmes-Watson case from the volume '_His Last Bow_'. Set in 1894.

8. Hypodermic needle. Holmes, at least early in his career, had a habit of using cocaine at a 7 percent solution.

9. 'One other woman—esteemed lady-friend'. Irene Adler. See 'A _Scandal in Bohemia_'.

10. Lewis Carroll, George MacDonald, William Morris. All Victorian authors of fantasy stories.

—OOO**—**


	17. An Idle Chat on the River

—OOO**—**

**Chapter 17.**

Wednesday afternoon—16th May, 1894.

'**An Idle Chat on the River'**

After running below the now almost completed Tower Bridge the banks widened to reveal a wonderful view of the busy river. As far as the eye could see there was an amazing amount of traffic on the broad sheet of water, both upriver and down. A veritable forest of masts lined each bank, actually making it difficult in some places to see the streets and warehouses running parallel with the water. The multiplicity of boats moving freely in all directions served to disturb the surface, making the river choppy and difficult for smaller vessels. Several diminutive, but noisy and dirty, tugs pulled short rakes of long open barges; while, at a slightly faster rate, numerous red-sailed Thames barges slid through the glinting water with seemingly effortless grace.

Interspersed with these were the more decidedly visible elements of our maritime trade; high-sided steamers of various sizes and states of repair. Many smaller representatives had rust-encrusted bows, filthy, belching funnels, and dirty unpainted superstructures. Others, slightly larger, were in better condition; clean and well-painted with an air of authority and determination as they set their bows upstream or down. Amongst all these, representing the common mass as it were, sailed a throng of brigs, schooners, yawls, brigantines, and even a few decrepit old clippers; these latter still showing, beneath dirt and neglect, the beautiful and graceful lines which had made them the Queens of the Seas thirty years before. All these diverse old craft had sails either set fair as they moved gracefully among the common dirty steamers, or furled to the yardarms as they slid along behind incongruously filthy tugs sending dirty bands of smoke across the sailing-ships pristine decks. And interspersed with all this echoed the most dreadful cacophony, made up of steamers blowing their whistles at the least necessity; the cracking and groaning of innumerable masts and sails as the breeze veered with the bending river; and the noise of uncountable industrial cranes and other machinery busy beside the endless warehouses and wharves along each bank. Allied with this an amazing tang was perceptible in the air made up of a mixture of filthy river-water; aromatic spices; engine-oil; and coal smoke from the infinite panorama of factory chimneys and tight-packed street-houses—all belching out such thick fumes that even on this fine afternoon the sky had a decided yellow tint, with a visible mistiness that lent a curiously romantic light to the distant views.

Xena, from almost the start of the journey, had been talking with some enthusiasm about the visible landmarks. Mostly in order, I surmise, to take Gabrielle's mind off her bodily woes. Gabrielle was clearly not a woman built for a life at sea. Xena had expounded on the remarkable similarity St. Paul's Cathedral, visible in the distance behind us as we sailed under Tower Bridge, apparently had to similar buildings in Rome—finally concluding that Sir Christopher Wren's masterpiece wasn't particularly great! She had been much more enthusiastic about the Tower of London—praising its thick walls and central tower. An excellent defensive position, she thought. The new stonework and amazing engineering skill of the nearly finished Tower Bridge, with its two road-spans presently fully raised, claimed the women's attention—and when both Haggard and Holmes had explained the finer details of its nature the women agreed it was astonishing. Xena said she thought the concept could be used effectively in some places she knew of back in Greece. And then we had passed under the two high Gothic towers of the new bridge and entered the Pool, which was even more crowded with vessels than the earlier stretch. Many being large ocean-going passenger-cargo ships, safely tied up at the many wharves, with steel sides towering over the lesser barges and brigs.

"Are we goin' to the —what d'you call 'em,—the East India Docks?" Xena was peering ahead down-river, though the traffic was too heavy to see far.

"I hope not!" Holmes offered this statement with his usual somewhat sharp tongue; but the ladies seemed to be growing used to his unsociable nature and thankfully ignored his tone.

"You seemed to be in your element, Markham, when you visited those Docks a few days ago." Gabrielle actually managed a small smile as she glanced, somewhat enviously, at the stocky man now standing by the rail with an easy stance; as if he had been used to a ship's rocking deck all his life.

"Bless you ma'am, I voyaged out past India to China as a crewman on a clipper when I were young; three voyages in all. The '_Serica_' she were—a beautiful ship.* I was onboard when she took part in the Great Tea Race of '66! Came in third, behind '_Taeping_' and '_Ariel_'—I was never lucky that way!* Don't know to this day what'd come over me. A sense o' adventure, I suppose, was at the bottom o' it!" He grinned and re-positioned the scruffy round bowler-hat which never left his close-cropped head. "Anyway, all the way acrost the Bay o' Bengal we sailed on my first voyage, an' the Andaman Sea; finishing up, eventually, in Singapore. Nice place, Singapore—big harbour, with what looked to me like most o' the whole world's ships at anchor there. Blimey, but it _were_ a busy place! I've often thought since—if ever it came my way to settle somewhere overseas—it'd be in Singapore. Lot's o' atmosphere an' nice people, too. Yes, if I could get a tidy little Singapore house; an' a tidy little Singapore girl ter marry me, I'd retire there happy as a lark, ma'am!"

"Where is this Elysian Fields, exactly? One of the few places Xena and I haven't been to, I think!" Gabrielle smiled warmly at the stocky man, as he gazed thoughtfully over the rippling water after making these unexpected revelations.

"It's on the tip of the Malay Peninsula on the East side of the Bay of Bengal." Haggard scratched his beard as he brought the relevant facts to mind. "The Malacca Strait separates it from Sumatra. Then pretty much to its South is Java; and further to the East are Borneo and the South China Sea. About as exotic a location as you could possibly think of, in fact!"*

"Make a note, Gabrielle." Xena grinned at her companion. "We might take a trip there, for a break, when we return to our own tim—er, country. What d'you say?"

"Yeah, sounds good to me." Gabrielle readily agreed, with a happy nod. "If it's half as pleasant as Markham says, then it'll be great for a holiday. As long as you stay out of trouble with the locals, gal, an' don't end up bein' all athletic with your chakram!"

"I'll be nice to everyone in Singapore—I promise, Gabrielle. You know me—the soul of jollity an' discretion to one an' all!" Xena hunched her shoulders, under her seemingly uncomfortable blouse and jacket, in a peculiar way she had. "If we ever happen to make it out there, that is."*

Gabrielle had been looking ahead, and all around, for some time as this conversation took place. Now she turned to Holmes with a frown and indicated with a wave of her arm the immediate surroundings of our small launch.

"We ain't goin' very fast, Mr Holmes." She pointed at the bow and raised her eyebrows questioningly. "In fact, if we speed up just a little more we may even stop goin' backwards! What's up?"

"Yeah, we appear to be heading rather close to that other launch, Mr Holmes." Xena pointed ahead and slightly to her left as our small craft continued weaving through the other traffic on the river. "The one with the letters on its side."

The craft she indicated was larger than our own launch, though still of a relatively small size. Its single deck sat some two feet or so higher above the waterline than our own vessel, with a small enclosed cabin-bridge; it also, like ourselves, sported a tall black-painted funnel from which a dark Stygian plume of smoke was rolling in a most bellicose manner. While our launch was of clinker-built wood, this one had sides of slightly rusty steel plates.* Along its side were painted in large black letters the words 'H M Customs'.

"Ha, in fact I made provision earlier for a Customs launch to meet us here." Holmes made this statement with an authority that belied argument. "I have a plan."

"Oh yeah, what would that be then?" Xena did not sound impressed.

"Captain MacLeish, it seems, has come most carefully upon his hour."* Holmes ignored Xena's leading question for the moment, and indeed showed no surprise at the imminent encounter between the two vessels; an event which appeared more certain as the seconds went by. "Though showing his usual lack of decorum, I see! If you all hold on to the handrail tightly, please; I believe there will be some choppy water as he comes to a stop."

There was indeed a sudden frothing and tumbling of water under the other launch's stern; it lost headway visibly and eventually came to a halt in the centre of the reach: the final action being the noisy rattling as a small anchor fell from the stern into the muddy depths of the river. As Holmes had prophesied, several waves ran out from the launch's bow directly in our path. Our own helmsman, however, appeared ready for this contingency and had already brought us round to face the encroaching vessel, allowing the waves to run under our boat with only a sudden rising and falling of the deck; as if we were in a particularly ebullient lift. Gabrielle, I must record, held tightly to her companion's arm during this manoeuvre; leaned far over the handrail; and did, _ahem_, what one could only expect from someone with no real sea-legs.

The pandemonium caused amongst all the other river-traffic by the launch's untoward action was spectacular. A small filthy tug, belching smoke, veered to starboard as it towed a line of three barges; its captain appearing out the window of his small bridge to vilify the source of his ire in words and language which, gentle reader, I have no intention of recording here. Several Thames barges coming up-river hauled their red sails and fell off in all directions; themselves causing vessels behind to take all sorts of evasive actions. The amount of steam-whistles and variety of language then apparent to the ear was something I had never experienced before. Even Gabrielle looked up and seemed to be taking note of the more extreme expressions used by the irate crews of surrounding craft; no doubt in order to send a sharp censorious letter to '_The Times_' when we returned. At least I hope that was her intent, though she did seem to be smiling and I almost believe I heard her tell Xena she was sorry not to have a quill and scroll with her; Xena merely grinning in return and shaking her head good-humouredly. Then we were caught up in the task of hooking up to the sides of the launch as it became apparent its Captain meant to visit us forthwith.

He, indeed, jumped aboard with remarkable agility and speed, immediately holding out a hand to Holmes as to an old friend. In size he was not over-tall; with a head of thick dark red hair and a scratchy trimmed beard of much the same tone. His eyes were blue, of the intensity of glacial ice, and his features were strong and weather-beaten. His build, under the rather crumpled uniform, was taut and muscular. He was possibly in his mid-forties; though a further decade may not have been beyond possibility. His voice, when he spoke, was deep and richly tinged with the Lowland Scots accent.

"Well, has it no been a while sin we last forgaithert, Mr Holmes. I hope I find ye well?" He stepped back to take a view of the craft he now stood on, and lifted a hand to his cap to settle it more firmly on his head. "No a bad-lookin vessel, for a wee river-scowe."*

"I'm glad you could come at such short notice, Captain MacLeish." Holmes smiled thinly, though with a glint of humour in his eye. "We are lucky to catch you just setting out on a passage down-river."

"Ha, I wis jist thinkin it was going to be a gey dreich voyage doon the Estuary; what wi' the prevailin weather an all." The grizzled seafarer shifted his shoulders, as if to get more comfortable. "Then I got yer message just as I set foot on ma bridge a wee bittock time ago. Sae here I am, ready for what ye will!"

"Ladies and Gentlemen, may I introduce my old friend Captain Jaimie '_Honest Jock_' MacLeish." Holmes performed the introductions as if we were all in a West End ballroom, and not in the middle of a somewhat congested river. "He is a fine seaman and officer of the Thames River Authority & Customs, and has been kind enough to be of some assistance to me in the past."

"Aye, '_Honest Jock_' by name, though I'm thinkin there's many would disagree." He delivered this with a grin showing white teeth beneath his beard. "A michty slander, o' course."

"Pleased to meet you, I'm sure. Though to what, er, do we owe this unexpected pleasure?" Haggard echoed the general interest of us all at this remarkable meeting. "I thought we were going to, er—?"

"—attack Colonel Moran in his hideout?" Holmes shook his head. "No. From past experience we know that would simply be foolish. What I intend to do is flush him from his hole out onto the River. From where we can perform a three-pronged attack of our own."

"Here, on the river?" Gabrielle had recovered enough to rejoin the conversation; though still looking decidedly green. "With our launch, and this bigger vessel, you mean?"

"I'll have ye know that's a fine bonnie boat, madam!" Captain MacLeish eyed the young woman, from boots to short blonde hair, with some interest. "Nae doubt ye have very little experience o' such, I'm thinkin'."

"And wants even less, I'm afraid!" Xena spoke before she could stop herself, and gained an evil glare from her weak companion in return.

"Ah well, there's those that's sailors; an' there's those that ain't!" Captain MacLeish delivered this homily with a knowledgeable nod of his head, as if saying the last word on the subject. "How can I be of assistance then, Mr Holmes? What'll it be?"

"I have spoken with Lestrade and he has agreed to my suggestion." There was a cold deliberateness in Holmes's voice. "Lestrade will lie down-river, opposite the Isle of Dogs; while you, Captain MacLeish, will stay hereabouts to stop Colonel Moran's escape up-river. We, on this boat, will stand off at Wapping Wall—waiting for Lestrade's body of police officers to mount a sudden surprise assault on the house there after our quarry is seen to enter it. When he, inevitably, makes a break for freedom on the river we shall be awaiting him. Haggard, is your rifle loaded? It may be necessary to defend ourselves."

"Yes, certainly." The African adventurer spoke calmly. "I brought two Winchesters. They're down in the cabin, now. But what about our position, here on the river? These guns have a range of about three hundred yards or so—and the river, as you can see, is crowded."

"Well, let us hope it does not come to the last resort." Holmes gazed down-river intently as he replied. "There are, as you say, far too many people about for an unrestricted gun-battle to ensue."

"I think," Xena spoke with a cold stare at everyone around her. "that if he does make an appearance—and see's us—he'll go all out to Hades to try and take us down."

"I just hope, Mr Haggard, you're as good with those gun-weapons as you think you are. Because you'll need to be!" Gabrielle reached down to her ankle, under the hem of her long blue skirt, and straightened with one of her now trademark daggers. "If Xena or I get close enough to him I just hope you can differentiate between friend and foe, in the dust and melee!"

"I still hope we can take him captive without a fight to the death." Holmes raised an eyebrow critically. "It will be the best way, in the end."

"If there is a fight—an' I come within a hundred yards of Moran—believe me, you'll know what death looks like!" Xena too had reached beneath her loose jacket, and now twirled the circular chakram in her hand, light flashing from its sharp edge. "I never miss!"

—OOO**—**

**Notes:— **

1. Tea Clipper '_Serica_'. Serica is Latin for 'China'. She was built in Greenock, Scotland, expressly for the China tea trade in 1863. On the 3rd November 1872 she was wrecked in the South China Sea, with only one of her twenty-three crew surviving. See Wicki.

2. The Great Tea Race. In 1866 nine China tea-clippers raced to bring the year's first crop of tea back to London, for high bonuses. After a 3 month voyage the '_Taeping_' won by 20 minutes over '_Ariel'_; with '_Serica_' third, only an hour and a half behind the leaders. Markham would have been about 16.

3. Singapore. A reference in thanks to some of my readers. Singapore is today a busy & successful Republic.

4. Sumatra, Java, and the larger portion of Borneo, are all now members of Indonesia.

5. Clinker-built. A method of boat-building where the wooden planks are not smoothly set, but overlap each other.

6. Come most carefully—. 'You come most carefully upon your hour'. Shakespeare—'_Hamlet_', Act I, Scene I.

7. Captain MacLeish is portrayed as coming from Lowland Scotland. At first I was going to have him speak exclusively in his native dialect; but on second thoughts, after some trial drafts, realised this would be almost impenetrable to most readers. _Forgaithert_—meet, assemble together. _Gey_ _Dreich_—very dreary, very bleak. _Bittock_—a little portion or fragment. _Michty_—mighty, terrible. _Bonnie_—beautiful, pretty.

—OOO**—**


	18. Avernus on the Thames

—OOO**—**

**Chapter 18.**

Wednesday afternoon—16th May, 1894.

'**Avernus on the Thames'**

"_**Fthwwpht!**_"

The sound of a bullet whipping close past my ear was as suddenly followed by the horrible and distinctive thump as it hit a human target. Swinging round with the speed of old memories I was just in time to see the dark silhouette of our sailor-helmsman disappearing over the side into the choppy river.

His flailing arm yanked round the wheel as he went, forcing our launch inexorably to port; right across the bow of an oncoming cargo-ship of what seemed vast size. The next few seconds were filled with a curious mixture of excitement, drama, and confused activity.

"Are you alright, Dr Watson?" Xena called from her position near the bow.

"I'm going in after him!" Gabrielle made a move to the rail, with her hands at her waist as if ready to unbuckle her belt.

"Nae, ma'am." Captain MacLeish jumped forward to grab her arm firmly. "My ain men are after the puir wretch. See the boat driftin' o'er tae his heed e'en nou. Aiblins they'll hae him cleekit the whiles."*

"Everybody duck on the deck." Holmes followed his own precept by dragging me by my coat arm down beside him. "We don't want another victim, Watson! Everyone keep low. Captain MacLeish, for God's sake don't stand there like a statue; Moran'll have you in an instant."

"I've got the helm." Rider Haggard had taken the initiative in the confusion and was even now hauling the recalcitrant wheel back to starboard, while the approaching cargo-ship loomed ever closer. "It's OK, she's coming round."

"_**Fwthwwit!**_"

Another bullet whistled across the deck with the usual evil sound these things generally make; though no-one appeared to be injured.

"Did that hit anyone?" Holmes glanced round at the several forms now lying in various attitudes all across the deck.

"Not me, sir!" Markham lay spread-eagled just in front of the tall funnel, clutching his bowler-hat.

"I'm OK." Gabrielle twisted round searching for her friend in the mass of struggling figures. "Xena?"

"Yeah, I'm OK too." The dark-haired woman had taken shelter forward, on the port side of the low skylight that served the little saloon below deck. "Just keep down."

"I thought you said Moran never missed, Holmes?" Haggard shouted from his position beside the wheel, where he was trying to steer as he crouched low with bent knees.

"Nae-one on ma boat's bin hit either." Captain MacLeish, from his place lying prone on the deck, was studying the manoeuvres of his command as it veered across the river, several men visible as they hauled the limp form of the stricken sailor aboard beside them.

"Was he aiming at the tug-cable?" I offered this possible explanation as the great cargo ship slid past, still horrifyingly close, on our port side,.

The ship was being hauled by a small tug that seemed almost lost in the distance up-river. A long hawser ran from its stern high up to the bow of the tramp steamer where it was attached to a cable-drum, manned by what appeared to be a group of three blatantly interested sailors staring down at the unfolding carnage developing on the river before their astonished eyes.

"Even _his_ bullets won't break that cable." Holmes called out in a steadfast voice. "Far too thick."

"Yeah, that's right." Xena glanced over at the solid curve of the great rope as the ship continued its passage beside us. "It'd take a couple of axes and some mighty hard work to cut that! Looks like we're making space between the ship an' us now, Haggard."

"Thank God for that." Rider Haggard crouched a little higher and dragged the wheel another half-turn to starboard. "What's ahead? Anymore traffic in our way?"

"_**Ffwiimpth—K'zang!**_"

A third bullet hummed close overhead between, as far as I could tell, Gabrielle and Captain MacLeish. It hit somewhere on the outer iron casing of the small but violently noisy steam engine; making Rider Haggard drop prone to the deck for a few seconds, before he resolutely crawled back behind the wheel to crouch at his post once more.

"There's a bullet-hole in the engine, near the cylinder I think." Holmes glanced from the damaged target to the open water. "Anyone fixed his position yet? Where's he firing from?"

"He's on a boat on the river along with us." Xena waved an arm vaguely down-river. "He must have spotted us as he approached the Wapping shore. Captain MacLeish's Customs launch stands out like a sore thumb, I think!"

"Damnation, I didn't think of tha—." Holmes angrily struck the wood of the deck beside him with a closed fist, but was cut off before he could finish.

"See that Thames barge with the light pink patch on its red sail, near the Bermondsey shore!* About two hundred yards down-river." Markham had risen to his knees and was staring in that direction, at some danger to himself. "The boat just on its port side; a little further out in the river; a launch with a red top to its funnel; I think that's him, sir!"

"Markham's right!" Xena's shout cut through the surrounding noise with electrifying clarity. "I can almost see—."

"_**Fwwthph—T'zing!**_"

This fourth bullet again hit fairly in the belly of our engine, causing a cloud of dust and shrapnel to zip through the air. Apparently aimed at the lower curve of the pressure-cylinder it had instead, by good fortune, hit more or less harmlessly a large solid brass gauge and ricocheted off; sending metal fragments in all directions.

"_Auwch!_" Markham gave a cry of pain and clutched his left arm. "Somethin' bleedin' hit me. Gawd, there's blood everywhere!"

I crawled over the cluttered unsteady deck to his side and did what I could. The arm of his jacket showed a little, almost inconspicuous, tear and damp patch. After some slight struggle to remove this, and pull up his shirt sleeve, a longish ragged wound in the flesh of his arm above the elbow was evident. It was bleeding freely, as these types of light wounds always do.

"It's a flesh wound, Markham." I unceremoniously ripped his sleeve away and, after a detailed inspection, tied the resulting strip of cloth round his arm. "A bit of shrapnel's sliced through the soft part of your arm; but hasn't embedded itself. Keep this tight to stop the bleeding and I'll see to stitches when we reach shore."

"Thank'ee sir. Gawd, it's just like bein' back in Ashanti!" Markham clutched his arm and nodded his thanks. "Just let me get close enough to that bugger Moran; I'll see 'im well-served, straight!"

"We _all_ want that." Xena had crawled over to join us amidships. "You'll have to wait in line, though. Me first; then Gabrielle, then Haggard; then Holmes; then you, Markham."

"Gawd, ma'am." He broke into a more-or-less toothless grin as he inched himself into a slightly more comfortable position. "Don't figure there'll be more'n him left than a faint pink mist blowin' away on the breeze, by that time!"

"_**Fwwmthph—K'aang!**_"

A fifth bullet smacked straight through the outer casing protecting the black-painted pressure-cylinder, about two feet above the deck. There was a curious cessation of all movement from everyone as we waited for we-didn't-know-what to happen as a result. After a moment, as the engine happily continued its incessant throbbing uninterrupted, it was Captain MacLeish who broke the silence.

"Ah'm thinkin' it's chust the Clydeside riveters that've checkit his wind." He nodded knowingly. "Will ye cast yer eye ower thon!"

He pointed with a blunt, slightly oily, finger to a dirty brass plate set on the side of the engine near the deck planks. Crawling a few inches nearer I saw it gave the name of '_Fairfield & Co., Govan, Scotland_' as the manufacturer of the magnificent engine.*

"Xena, grab the helm." Rider Haggard took this opportunity to leave the wheel and duck away towards the hatch. "I'm going down to get my Winchesters. About time that blighter had some of his own medicine back!"

Xena slipped into place behind the wheel and carefully straightened the course of our vessel as we continued down-river. We couldn't be sure if we were gaining on Moran's boat as a result, for his vessel had disappeared behind another tug pulling a line of four low barges; and to their port side yet another cargo ship, with towering steel sides, was being carefully manoeuvred by two other tugs. For the moment Moran was out of sight.

"Can you use your chakram, Xena?" Gabrielle called back as she inched forward cautiously to the bow, where she surveyed the busy river intently.

"Nah, too far yet." Xena kept a watchful eye on her companion's actions. "Careful, Gabrielle. Don't give him a target."

"Captain MacLeish, could I propose your joining Haggard below deck?" Holmes gave a tight cold smile to the uniformed officer. "He will need someone to look after the ammunition for his weapons. I think you are perhaps the best qualified for that at the moment."

"Surely, surely." The bearded old salt crawled over towards the hatch. "Will it no be a pleisur to haun' up the cairtridges for sic a sonsie fechter."*

With this parting shot of his Lowland Scots tongue the fine sailor disappeared below to join the sometime African big-game hunter. In just another moment Rider Haggard himself re-appeared, carrying two rifles beneath his arm.

"Captain MacLeish has very kindly offered to take care of the ammunition for me." He slid across the deck to Holmes and myself. "Would you like to use the second rifle, Watson?"

"I think not." I excused myself rather diffidently, in the circumstances. "My eyesight's not up to it, I'm afraid. But perhaps Gabrielle would be interested."

"Have you had experience with rifles, ma'am?" The old African hand looked squarely at the young blonde woman.

"No. But I'm always open to learning new weapons." She returned his glance with a determined look in her own green eyes. "My sisters—er, that is, friends I know—are into weapons-training all the time. I'm sure I can get the grip of it quickly."

"It's simple enough." Rider Haggard nodded concisely in acknowledgement of her professional attitude. "Slide six cartridges individually into this slot. Use this lever to push forward each bullet as needed; grip it firmly; sight along the barrel; and squeeze the trigger gently. You'll find you can't miss!"

"Huh, let's hope so." Gabrielle offered her teacher a grim smile. "Anyway, I'll do my best."

"If you each lie on either side of the skylight it'll give some protection." Xena offered her advice in a cold controlled tone as she grasped the helm firmly. "It'll give you both a slight angle, to come at him from two directions: that'll be a good thing. Are you goin' below, Markham? It'll be safer there."

"Not a chance, ma'am." His close-cropped head swung round to face Xena. "It ain't anything but a scratch. I've had worse fallin' downstairs at the '_Rising Sun_' when I'd had one too many! An' I've a personal interest, now. I'll be yer look-out fer the river-traffic if that suits, ma'am?"

"You're on, Markham." Xena gave an almost joyful laugh, though her deep blue eyes were narrowed and cold. "Can you sit up there, just behind the funnel? You ought'a be alright there."

"_**Fwwththtt—H'lang!**_"

This sixth bullet heralded the return of our adversary; obviously still as anxious to stop us as we were him. It hit the engine again; this time almost centrally on the curved barrel of the cylinder. But once more the exterior iron-riveted casing seemed to absorb the impact; leaving the pressurised tank inside unscathed.

"By God, Mr Harris at the boatyard ain't goin' ter be happy when he gets his launch back!" Markham swivelled round to examine the new hole in the engine, then returned to staring ahead.

"Can you see Moran?" Holmes called forward to the two sharp-shooters lying at full length on the port and starboard sides of the skylight.

"Is that his vessel, just behind the brigantine over on the Wapping side?"* Rider Haggard called loudly, as he shuffled carefully into a slightly better position.

"Nah, funneI's not red. See that yellow-sailed yawl in the distance? I think he's just behin—."* Gabrielle's musing was cut short by another message from the indefatigable Colonel.

"_**Fwwthmmt—Crack!**_"

A seventh bullet hit the edge of the skylight only a bare inch or so above Gabrielle's head, sending wood splinters tearing through the air. She dropped the rifle; clutched at her head, and rolled over on her back; blood clearly seeping through her fingers.

"_Aphrodite's Hair!_" Gabrielle gave an angry shout. "That cut my head. It's alright, Xena! Just a scratch. _Hera's Sword_, I'll get him for that!"*

"_Odin's Beard!_ Ya sure you're OK, Gabrielle?" Xena stood up for a moment to gaze anxiously forward. "_Loki's Ring!_ That's it, that bastard ain't gettin' off this river alive!"

"_Good God_, this is turning into the Battle of the Little Big Horn!"* Holmes stared around appalled. "People are getting hurt here."

"_Asase Ya!_" Markham, calling on his own remembered gods, ducked his head behind the now dubious protection of the small funnel and gave a shout of warning. "That's his boat just in front of that moored cargo ship over at Wapping Old Stairs. He's only about a hundred yards away now!"

"_Mamlambo!_ I can see him!" Rider Haggard's voice was full of suppressed excitement. "A clear shot at las—."

"_**Thwwtt—Scrnnch!**_"

Moran's eighth shot again seemed to target Gabrielle, hitting the deck only a foot in front of her rifle barrel. Once more it sent a shower of splinters scything through the air.

"_Ey-iich, my hand!_" Gabrielle wrung her left hand in the air for a second, before grasping her weapon once more. "_Demeter's Torch!_ Just another scratch, Xena. Dr Watson, can you hear me? There's a splinter stuck between my fingers; can you take a look? Wait—wait. I can see him too, Haggard!"

"_**Crack!**_"

"_**Crack!**_"

Both shots came exactly together, as our defenders let fly at Moran on the far side of the river. But he wasn't to be lightly intimidated.

"_**Thwwthpht—S'aang!**_"

The Colonel's ninth incoming shot again hit the over-worked engine casing; but once more the Govan shipworkers expertise triumphed, and the engine carried on; snorting away to itself as if it were nothing more than a cruise up-river to Hampton Court.* Though the number of holes visible in the curved plates were increasing worryingly; at least in my eyes.

All this while our boat was steering across the width of the river, carefully controlled by Xena at the helm. The rest of the river-traffic; ships and boats of all sizes and descriptions, had finally woken up to the fact that something extraordinary was going on and were setting their heads indiscriminately towards the Bermondsey or Wapping shores with remarkable speed.

"_**Crack!**_"

"_**Crack!**_"

"I saw him duck down, Xena!" Gabrielle let out a cry of exultation as she re-loaded. "Damn nearly hit him, I think!"

"We're closing in on him." Rider Haggard glanced back at the group of spectators crouching in various corners behind him. "Another few yards and I'll have the white's of his eyes in my sights!"

"Just as well." Xena gave a short grating laugh where she crouched at the wheel behind the now semi-invalid engine. "This thing's coal-fired; an' nobody's been stoking the boiler for a while. I think we're just about to run out of—what d'ya call it?—steam!"

The last of a string of heavy-laden barges swung past our port side; Xena set our own bow towards the Wapping shore; with frightful clarity we all suddenly realised Moran's launch was a mere sixty yards away across the rippling water: then all Hell broke loose.

"_**Crack!**_"

"_**Crack!**_"

"_Ala-la-la-la-la-la-la-yee!_"

"_**Wheeeeemmm!**_"

I distinctly saw splinters shoot up from the wooden rail of the distant boat; something reflected sunlight as it curved through the air towards Moran's vessel at a speed that astonished me; then a dark-coated figure, only just visible to my watering eyes, seemed to stagger, fall, and disappear from sight.

In another instant our view was cut off by an old clipper sailing, serenely un-regarding of all about her, up the centre of the Reach; her mainsail set as if ready for one last voyage to China. Moran's boat was lost to view just at the same moment as our gallant engine decided that it too had had enough for the day. There was a preliminary wheeze from the funnel, then the engine stopped abruptly without further ado.

"_**Wheeeeemmm!**_"

The same terrifying whistle I had heard just seconds before caught all our ears once more. There was a single flash of light as something whizzed across the deck of the clipper twenty yards away over the water from us; then Xena stood proudly tall, as if without a care in the world, and caught something out of the very air itself. She once more grasped her deadly chakram.

"Look, Xena." Gabrielle had returned from the bow, and was standing by the taller woman's side. "There's blood on its edge!"

—OOO**—**

**Notes:— **

1. Avernus. Lake Avernus in Italy, regarded in Classical times as an entrance to Hades.

2. Aiblins—cleekit the whiles. 'Perhaps they'll have him hooked presently'.

3. Wapping is on the North bank. Opposite on the South bank is first Bermondsey, then Rotherhithe.

4. Fairfield Shipbuilding & Engineering Co., Govan, Scotland, saw their heyday from the 1880's till 1965.

5. Sonsie fechter. Sensible shrewd fighter.

6. A _brigantine_ is a large cargo-carrying vessel with two masts; the forward main-mast being square-rigged, while the rear mizzen-mast is fore-&-aft rigged.

7. A _yawl_ is a small boat with two masts, a tall mainmast & a smaller mast located much further aft. Fore-&-aft rigged, they are essentially small yachts.

8. '_Aphrodite's Hair_'—& following. Gabrielle calls on the Greek Gods; Xena calls on the Nordic Gods; Holmes calls on the Christian God; Markham calls on an Ashanti Goddess; & Rider Haggard calls on a Zulu Goddess.

9. The Battle of the Little Big Horn was the most famous action of the 'Great Sioux War' of 1876, taking place in Montana Territory on June 25 & 26, 1876. Forces of Lakota, Northern Cheyenne, & Arapaho defeated the 7th Cavalry Regiment under the command of George Armstrong Custer.

10. Hampton Court Palace is a royal palace in Richmond-on-Thames, Greater London. It was originally the seat of Cardinal Thomas Wolsey, Archbishop of York who, for political reasons, gifted it to Henry VIII in 1528.

—OOO**—**


	19. Incident on a Wool Clipper

—OOO**—**

**Chapter 19.**

Wednesday afternoon [_will this day never end?_ :) ] — 16th May, 1894.

'**Incident on a Wool Clipper'**

"_Hera's Sword_, your face is covered in blood, Gabrielle!" Xena took the arm of her friend and gazed with great anxiety at her. "And your hand?"

"It ain't as bad as it looks, Xena." Gabrielle managed a smile. "My head's only a scratch. But there's a piece of wood stuck between my fingers that hurts a bit."

"Dr Wa—." Xena turned to find me but I was already beside them, opening Gabrielle's fingers.

"Yes, I see it." Thankfully I recognised at once that, though certainly nasty, it was not a serious wound. "It's thin and just under an inch long, stuck through the soft flesh between the fingers. I could wrap a bandage round your hand and use tweezers back at Baker Street; or perhaps—?"

"Yeah, get it over with." Gabrielle winced, but showed no fear of the likely resulting pain. "Get rid of it now. You can put some ointment on it later. What're you doin', Xena?"

Xena had moved forward to grab a coiled rope near the launch's bow. Just across the water from us the large sleek black-painted clipper, obscuring our view of Moran's boat, had more or less come to a halt on our port side ten yards away. Seeing a sailor looking over the rail of the tall sailing-ship, she yelled over to him and threw the rope's end with unerring aim.

"Hey, tie that firmly and pull us over; we're comin' aboard."

Her deep voice and harsh tone made the man jump to carry out her orders, and in moments two other men had joined him to help haul the launch across the few intermediate yards between the two unevenly matched boats. As we came up to touch the sides of what appeared to be its remarkably towering sides a figure in a dark coat and peaked cap made his appearance on the deck high above. He seemed a shortish elderly man with a clipped white beard and thick moustache.

"What's this? What's going on?" He took an instant to glance at his crewmen. "Make the rope tight round that belaying pin, and get ready for passengers. Are you coming aboard? What were those shots about?"

"Yeah, Captain." Xena wasted no time in pleasantries. "We—we have a—a sort of a situation here. I think we'd all be safer on your ship."

Meanwhile Markham had been looking intently at the giant clipper with its huge masts which, from our low perspective, seemingly disappeared into the clouds; and now gave vent to a sudden realisation.

"My Gawd, that's the '_Cutty Sark_'!"*

There was very little time for any of us to contemplate the famous ship, for the Captain had already had a rope-ladder thrown down to us and Xena was cajoling Rider Haggard up with his rifle and a canvas rucksack slung over his shoulder. Within the space of three minutes our trusty launch had been abandoned to Captain MacLeish and his own approaching Customs boat. He waved a goodbye as Xena herself finished helping Gabrielle up the ladder and onto the smooth boards of the wide deck.

"Maybe you could find a corner to see to Gabrielle's hand, Dr Watson? Damn these long skirts; a gal can hardly do anything in 'em!" Xena was brusque, focussed, and in complete control. "Captain, this is Mr Sherlock Holmes, of whom you have no doubt heard. We're all helping him in a little, er, incident. Did you see that small steam-launch with the red-topped funnel over by the North Bank?"

"I certainly saw a man firing a rifle, rather indiscriminately, across the breadth of the River from it." The Captain nodded, without arguing about the strangeness of the situation. "Allow me to introduce myself—Captain Richard Woodget. At your service, I'm sure. Should we not be informing the police about this?"

"The police are already on the job." Xena was engaged in making a clear appraisal of her surroundings, looking up and down the long sweep of the deck. "This here is one mighty fine ship you got, Captain. Those sails are amazing."

"Yes, she does well; all things considered. I'm a little concerned about those guns, though." Captain Woodget nodded over to Rider Haggard, who was calmly re-loading from ammunition contained in his rucksack. "I prefer to keep my ship free of firearms; unless, of course, they're under my control!"

_**Fthwwt-Scrnnch!**_

A bullet banged with immense force into the side of a large deckhouse beside which we stood, sending splinters flying everywhere.

"On the other hand, we can't have too many defensive armaments!" He ducked involuntarily then glanced at the other rifle, lodged upright against the gunwale where Gabrielle had left it. "If that weapon is spare I suggest someone take possession of it and start firing back. We appear to have a madman on the River."

"Damn right there!" Xena jumped across to grab the rifle, also taking a couple of boxes of cartridges from Rider Haggard before darting to the side. Thankfully the bulwarks were waist-high, built of solid elm and gave excellent protection. "I see his boat. Doesn't look like my chakram hit disabled him much! I need ta get closer for another try. I think he's trying to turn and head downstream. Red-topped funnel, over in front of those stone steps."

"Wapping Old Stairs." Both Markham and Holmes spoke at the same time.

"Haggard, if you go further aft near to the steering-wheel and fire from there perhaps Xena can run forward to the main-mast." Holmes took a sweeping glance all round. "You'll be able to set up a cross-fire that'll possibly hold him in check till Inspector Lestrade arrives from down-river."

"Your police acquaintances are coming up-river? From near the Isle of Dogs?" Captain Woodget's tone held a doubting note which brought Xena and Holmes up standing. "That would be in a small steam-launch commanded by a tall lean chap in a round bowler hat, and a somewhat grating voice?"

"What's happened?" Xena gazed at the small thickset man, whose piercing eyes shone beneath his low peaked cap. "You saw something on your way up-river?"

"Only, I'm afraid, a launch with said man and several constables on board experiencing something of a difficulty." The Captain seemed embarrassed to continue.

"Let us hear the worst, Captain." Holmes spoke in a melancholic tone. "I'm beginning to get used to all my best-laid schemes going awry. Captain MacLeish would have the pertinent quotation at his fingertips, no doubt!"*

"I'm afraid your Inspector, Lestrade was it, has come a purler with a string of cargo-lighters."* Captain Woodget shrugged his shoulders in sympathy with a fellow seaman's plight. "Somehow—for some reason—he seems to have felt impelled to change course rapidly. Far too rapidly, in fact, on this busy River. End result—his launch careered straight into the side of one of a number of lighters being towed up-river. I saw it myself—and I noticed that self-same launch with the red-topped funnel close by at the time. You know how heavily built those lighters are. Why, a cargo-steamer could hit one and the lighter would just bounce off and continue about its duties unharmed!"

"So—?" Xena sounded as if she already knew the answer to her query.

"The police launch hit the barge fair and square amidships." The clipper Captain raised a hand to scratch his brow. "Result—lighter, unharmed; launch—bow caved in—sinking by the head immediately! I must say your man, Inspector Lestrade, did a good job in the emergency—getting his men and crew off and only leaving the sinking launch when they were all safely aboard the lighter. Damn fine work. All left sitting on the tarpaulin covering the cargo—rather forlornly, I thought. But there you are—worse things have happened at sea! Er, that is to say—I mean—."

"Never mind, we get the picture." Xena threw her hands in the air for a moment, before turning to Holmes with a glint of anger in her deep blue eyes. "So, it's just him and us now. Well, let's see what the state of affairs is at the moment. But I want his dead corpse floating down the river, preferably amidst a pool of gore, in less time than it takes to say '_God-mn_' !"

Leaving the Captain to swallow this gross and quite unladylike remark as best he might Xena ran at a crouch along the deck to the main-mast. Here I could see her making a careful survey of the river over the top of the shielding bulwark, while I got on with the business of seeing to Gabrielle's hand. She herself was grinning rather coldly; as if she shared much of her companion's sentiment.

"This is going to hurt." I thought I had better state the obvious, as I produced a pair of scissors from the small leather instrument-pouch I always carried with me in a pocket.

"Life hurts, Doctor. This is just a minor hitch in a long line of disasters!" Gabrielle suddenly looked apologetic. "Sorry, Doctor. Come on, get this splinter out quickly. I need to prise that rifle back off Xena before she shoots a dog, or a seagull, or some poor innocent by-stander."

"Hey, I heard that!" Xena paused to snap this discontented remark back at her friend.

"Keep your head down, Xena." Gabrielle almost sniggered in reply, baring her teeth in a tense smile. "Make sure you—_Aowwoch!_ Gods, that _did_ hurt, Doctor!"

"This light bandage should keep it from getting dirty and bleeding too much." My experience in the field allowed me to make a competent job of her hand in next to no time. "It'll need a stitch or two, but I can see to that back at Baker Street."

"OK, thanks." The blonde warrior turned without another word and went after Xena, now crouching at the base of the main-mast.

"Ladies seem rather athletic? Examples of—what're they called,—the '_New Woman_'! Be asking for the vote next, eh." Captain Woodget nodded at the two ladies where they were now in deep discussion, with heads together. Then, after a pause. "Think they probably deserve to get it! Just my opinion."

Our social chit-chat was interrupted by Holmes who, with Markham by his side, had been peering cautiously over the bulwark for a couple of minutes.

"Watson! That boat with the red funnel is abandoned! It's veering aimlessly in the current." He looked to Markham for confirmation of this fact. "That last shot came from somewhere else. Moran's transferred to another ship. Can you see any possibilities?"

This question was not so easy to answer as may be thought. The River was particularly busy, with all sorts of vessels going about their business. Steam cargo ships; wooden brigantines; Thames barges with their red sails; and a plethora of smaller craft, both sail and steam. Picking any one at random was an almost impossible task. Then Markham gave a shout which concentrated our attention on something else.

"Hey, look!" He rose to a standing position and pointed down-river, just off our starboard stern. "That line o' low lighters; bein' pulled be'ind the small steam-tug. There's a crowd o' rozzers sittin' on the tarpaulins of one; an' I think Inspector Lestrade's among 'em!"

"Like Odysseus landing on that island—what was it called?" Holmes remarked, somewhat unkindly.*

_**Fwwmptht—Sccrrk!**_

This bullet hit the bulwark close to where Rider Haggard was balancing the barrel of his Winchester. Not to be outdone he immediately gave answering fire; apparently having pin-pointed his adversary's position.

_**Crack! Crack! Crack!**_

"He's on that Thames barge—the one with the dark patch in its sail!" Rider Haggard glanced back at the two women by the main-mast. "See it, Gabrielle? He's near its bow."

"Yeah, I see." Gabrielle had retrieved the rifle from her mate and was aiming with cool precision.

_**Crack! Crack!**_

"Damnation, he's gone behind that giant cargo ship." Gabrielle called after her companion, who was now running to the stern beside Rider Haggard. "Can you use your chakram, Xena?"

"Naw! Too far away. I can't see him, anyway." Xena stood upright and gave a shout of rage as she looked astern. "Gods! What's that damn ship doin'?"

Indeed, the cargo-ship indicated had completely blocked our view of the North Shore, and of Moran's new boat. Its accompanying steam-tug now proceeded to slow down, allowing the great ship to fall off slightly and so obstruct all other free passage across the River.

"Damned idiot! Get outta our way!" Xena's voice, deep and penetrating, easily cut across the intervening space; but neither the tug captain nor the cargo ship captain seemed interested in obeying her commands.

"Ma'am, the tug wiv the lighters has come up on our port side—with the Inspector. He don't look at all happy!" Markham gave this information in a dry neutral tone which spoke volumes. "Hey, Capting! Haul yer wind—we want ter speak wiv yer passengers on that lighter back there."

The tug Captain, apparently of an obliging nature and seemingly not at all put out by the curious proceedings going on around him, came to a halt there on our port side. So that now, with a large cargo-ship on our starboard side, and the tug with a line of lighters on our port side we had contrived to bring the entire traffic of the River to a halt. You may well imagine the curious calls, from all directions, for us to shift ourselves; and the remarkably free and descriptive nature of the language used. You _will_ have to imagine it, for I have no intention of relaying it here in these pages!

"Ah Lestrade, you appear to have gotten yourself into some difficulty." Holmes, for all the seriousness of our situation, could not help a certain sarcasm entering his voice as he called down to the stranded man sitting uncomfortably on the long tarpaulin-covered lighter. "May we assist you, if you are in any trouble?"

"Trouble! Trouble! I've seen trouble, don't you mind me!" Lestrade shouted up, in an extremely unhappy tone. "I've been slashed with knives by Chinamen in Limehouse; I've been beaten up by Lascars in Shadwell; I've been throttled by the scum o' the earth in Whitechapel; I've had Irish navvies try to heave me under a passing omnibus in the Mile End Road; I've had discontented little old ladies try to skewer me to the wall with knitting needles! Yes, I've seen Life, _I_ have! But _this_ beats all!"*

"Captain Woodget, I think the danger has passed for the present. We seem to have lost our quarry once again." Holmes stood straight and shrugged his shoulders. "If you will allow the worthy Inspector and his men to join us on your ship we would all appreciate being put ashore near Tower Bridge, I think."

"Ain't ya goin' to pursue the reptile any further down-river?" Xena had joined us, along with Rider Haggard and Gabrielle. "Seems a pity to stop now."

"I concur in your wish to run him to ground." Holmes nodded, as we all stood in a group on the deck of the famous clipper in the weak sunshine. "But look at the River. The traffic has been hopelessly brought to a standstill. Only the smallest of yawls or barges can still manoeuvre—and we are hemmed in on both sides at the moment. By the time we sort ourselves out Moran could be anywhere—either on the River, in Wapping, or Bermondsey. We shall have to think again. Ah, here is the somewhat wet, but unbowed, Inspector Lestrade. How are you? I take it Moran took a few pot-shots at you?"

"Damned swine put a bullet through my bowler." Lestrade held up the said object, which he clutched compulsively as he fumed with anger and impatience. "Damned good job I was holding it at my side at the time! That Moran! I'll have him. Straight! I'll have him! If I have to trawl through every rookery, gin-palace, low dive, an' doss-house in the whole city. See if I don't!"*

—OOO**—**

Notes:

1. '_Cutty Sark_', built in 1869, was certainly in the Thames around 25th June 1894, preparing for a run to Australia for wool. I have taken the liberty of placing her on the River in May also, though this may not be precisely historically accurate.

2. Captain Richard Woodget (1845-1938) was Master of the 'Cutty Sark' from 1885 till 1895. He was responsible for some of her most famous fast runs between Australia and Britain; once, in 1889, out-running the steamship RMS 'Britannia' which was doing 16 knots at the time [approximately 18.5 miles per hour].

3. Knots (speed at sea). The knot (pronounced not) is a unit of speed equal to one nautical mile (1.852 km) per hour, approximately 1.151 mph. See Wiki.

4. 'The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men/Gang aft agley'. Robert Burns. '_To a Mouse_'.

5. Cargo-lighters. Low barges used to transfer goods to and from ships. Unpowered, they were manoeuvred by long oars (sweeps) or by a tug. Much used on the Thames till the 1960's.

6. 'come a purler'. Have a headlong fall or accident.

7. Odysseus's landing. On the island of Aeaea, where the Goddess Circe turned his crew into pigs. See Homer's '_Odyssey_', Book 10.

8. navvies. Short for '_navigator_', a term used in the 18th & 19th centuries for manual labourers specifically working on canal or railway building sites.

9. Rookery. A rookery was the colloquial British English term given in the 18th and 19th centuries to a city slum, generally of small ground-area but high population, occupied by poor people and frequently also by low-life criminals.

—OOO**—**


	20. A Princess & Two Queens

—OOO**—**

**Chapter 20.**

Sunday — 20th May, 1894.

'**A Princess & Two Queens'**

For several days after the unfortunate events on the Thames (which were given a seemingly inordinate amount of space in the daily papers though, thanks to Lestrade, the presence of Holmes and Moran was not mentioned) we were forced to put the case on one side as Holmes had become engrossed in the curious events involving the people connected with the affair of '_Wisteria Lodge_'. This was a convoluted business which dragged on for some time with both Holmes and I spending several days at Esher over the preliminary aspects of the case; which were, of themselves, highly esoteric. I shall, I believe, be able to write up the case for publication at some point. By Sunday, however, we had returned to Baker Street, with no new outbreak of action from the Colonel having occurred in the meantime.

Xena and Gabrielle had been pursuing certain enquiries of their own which had taken them to various places around the City, while Holmes and I had been away in Esher. They had kept us informed by letter of their activities or, at least, Gabrielle had. Xena seemed more involved in the action, while her companion made the notes—a situation which gave me an uncomfortable feeling of deja vu for some reason! As an example, here is one of Gabrielle's missives which we received while in Esher:—

—OOO**—**

'Dear Mr Holmes & Dr Watson, my hand is doing very well, Doctor. Those stitches—Gods, they _were_ painful—and the ointment are working wonders, though the bandage still makes it difficult for me to use my hand properly yet. Can you imagine Xena trying to feed me at meals and give me cups of tea—what a mess! On the day after that unfortunate mishap on the river, when you had gone to Esher, Xena xdraggedx* took me to that huge xPlace of Historical Monumentsx British Museum where she wanted to learn about the Romans, for some reason. Well, the place is a maze full of xold junkx remarkable treasures from everywhere—I mean, _everywhere! _Who cares about the Babylonians anymore? Or the Cro-Magnons, whoever they were? Or the Beaker People?* I mean to say, there must be better things for your xsoothsayersx great scientists to investigate, surely. Anyway, we finally found the Romans; but only after I had to manhandle Xena away from an exhibition showing drawings and xpictu-x xpaintin-x photographs of those official xarchiox xarcholoiex xarchiolecolx graverobbers digging up various sites in Britannia and Egypt. "So that's what they do!" she said to me, sniggering away like a pot boiling and obviously embarrassing the other spectators milling about. "They dig a hole; get all ecstatic about the different colours of earth in it; nearly bust a blood vessel over a circle of black dirt they call a post-hole, whatever that is; an' then go an' write an enormous xscrollx book sayin' there's a palace there!* Ha! I could do that—with just as much success, I bet!" Well, you can imagine the looks we both got! Really, Xena does this all the time—embarrassing me in public everywhere. She really has no concept of social skills at all. Where was I? Right—yes—the Romans. What was I going to say about them? Yes—of course—Xena wanted to see what happened to them. At the end, that is. When their xcorrupt dictatorshipx civilisation had xcollapsedx xmet its true fatex finished. What do you suppose? Just as we approached the room where all this xuseless debrisx remarkable artwork and fine objects from the Roman Empire was xpiledx xdumpedx displayed we ran into an old friend of ours. His name's Ares, a Greek xGo-x person like us, Xena and me that is. I think you may have met or seen him once or twice? Xena's been watching me write this letter an' says '_paragraphs_'! What are those, I ask her, an' she goes off into a long rigmarole about grammar and whatnot! Just because she read Longinus a few weeks ago when she had nothing else to do! Alright, I give in. Paragraphs.*

"You can't go and see what happened to the Romans." says Ares, coming over all xass-x xbumptiou-x xboss-x manly like he usually does. "You ain't been brought all the way here from xour own tim-x Greece just so you can learn xthe futu-x about Roman History."

"Oh yeah, who's goin'ta stop me? You?" Xena instantly got her back up—she doesn't really like Ares much—I think.

"It's all to do with xTime an' the Go-x er, with er," He was obviously hunting for a half sensible reason to bar our way, without much joy. "With what ya _can_ know an' what ya _can't_. An' you _can't_—about the Romans, that is—the xGodsx people back in Greece say you've got better things to do—so get on with it. Ain't ya ever gonna xkick the cra-x bring that Colonel fella under legal restraint?"

Well, to cut a long interesting characterful epically majestic, and beautifully written, story short—"Gimme a break" Xena groans dismally in my ear; as if _she_ can write—ouch, that hurt—so finally Xena xbacked offx xsubmittedx xgave inx xfinally saw sensex agreed after mutually respected discussions with Ares that she and I should visit the Elgin Marbles instead—whatever they may be.* Ares then xvanished in ax went away, leaving us alone; at which point Xena asked me if _I_ wanted to see the Elgin Marbles; at which point I asked Xena if _she_ wanted to see the Elgin Marbles—so, instead, a few minutes later we were sitting in a nice little room near the main door where tea and cakes, and things called sandwiches, were being served. So we had a xblow-outx xwe gorgedx xate like starvin-x had a lady-like light meal then went home, happy as two larks.

Hope you, Dr Watson, and Mr Holmes are well and will be in the highest of spirits when you return on Sunday—because Xena wants me to tell you both she has a wonderful plan that will solve everything! Your friend, Gabrielle.'

—OOO**—**

On Sunday morning at 9.27am Xena and Gabrielle came to Baker Street and Xena told Holmes her great plan. At 9.38am Holmes completely disagreed with and blew said plan out of the water, as being hopelessly useless. At 9.39am something like a minor Colonial War of Words broke out within the confines of 221b Baker Street. At 9.42am both Gabrielle and myself, with Rider Haggard's invaluable assistance, finally succeeded in restoring order—no blood having been spilt in the interim; though it was a close call—a damned close call! At 9.45am all was forgotten and forgiven when the heavy step of Inspector Lestrade sounded on the stairs and he entered, bearing gifts. Or, at least, a letter bearing the Royal seal!

Unbelievably, Her Majesty Queen Victoria had, after perusing a variety of reports on the matter, decided that it would be best to have a conference with all major parties on the subject. This included Inspector Lestrade, Holmes, myself, Rider Haggard, Markham, Xena and Gabrielle; who were named with particular emphasis, along with Markham!

"Meet the Queen! Gawd, I can't do that, lookit what I'm wearing." The poor man, who had been accompanying us at breakfast, turned white at the thought. "In these old togs I look as if someone's just dredged me outta the Thames!"

"Don't worry, Markham." I tried not to smile at the man's discomfort. "You're not far off my size. I've a suit of tweeds and some shoes in my room that should fit you pretty well."

Inspector Lestrade, dressed in what we all supposed was his best outfit, was the leader of our group and gave strict instructions on etiquette—having to be quite severe with Xena when she exhibited a tendency to laugh at some of these. Finally a convoy of Hansoms and four-wheeled growlers set out from Baker Street for Buckingham Palace, where Victoria had set up her HQ for the day. Bearing in mind that the next day, Monday, was the official opening-day for the Manchester Ship Canal!

How best can I describe the ensuing few hours? Remarkable! Interesting! Astonishing! Perhaps a report first of Victoria's conversation with us, as I heard it, will be best—followed by a quotation from a short missive Gabrielle was in the process of writing, that she informed me was part of a description of her adventures with Xena—which, apparently, have been many and wonderful.

—OOO**—**

On arrival at Buckingham Palace a series of resplendently liveried servants showed us all through a series of remarkable rooms until we arrived at what was obviously the most private part of the establishment. Here Victoria's Private Secretary, Sir Henry Ponsonby, awaited us.* He was tall and of a truly soldierly bearing. With hardly any hesitation; except for a studied glance at the dresses of Xena and Gabrielle which were, while being wholly acceptable, still of a curiously, er, modern Greek nature, he conducted us through further rooms till a last door was opened and we all found ourselves in the presence of the Empress of India and Ruler of the greatest Empire the world has ever seen. Xena, though remaining silent and polite, didn't seem overly impressed!

While likely, at first glance, to be taken as rather homely Victoria soon brushed this false impression aside with her intense gaze and clear intelligence. Her voice was soft but clear and determined. What she said mattered; and what she said went—became the order of the day, without argument. I think it was truly said that the last person to really argue with her had been Disraeli—and even _he_ had never got his own way in the end.*

"This is a strange and fantastic state of affairs."

She expounded this view immediately after the introductions had been completed—with a multitude of bowing from the men present, and some curiously apathetic contortions from the two Greek ladies which, on a sunny day, _might_ have been mistaken for curtsies.

"The people of Manchester deserve the best possible attention from us all." She gazed round at the group standing respectfully before her, giving Inspector Lestrade a particularly long examination. "The officers and crews of my Merchant ships, as well as the gentlemen of the City Council, have worked tirelessly for months to bring this ceremony off without fail. I wish to see that such is the case—even in these trying circumstances. So, Miss Amphipolis, you and your companion have come all the way from Greece to help with the capture of the reprehensible Colonel Moran. I had thought that both Mr Holmes and Inspector Lestrade had already accomplished that objective? But apparently not!"

For the first time I realised what the phrase '_there was an uncomfortable shuffling of feet_' actually sounded like. All except Xena and Gabrielle, who both seemed relaxed and in their element.

"He ain't a God—or an Army leader, though he was an officer." Xena spoke with quiet respect, but with an authoritative tone. "He's the head of a gang of crooks an' deadbeats—most of whom have deserted him over the last few days. He's pretty much on his own now, ma'am. We can beat him."

"Hmmm." She gazed from Xena to Gabrielle and back, twirling a small locket between her fingers. "There is not much time left. In fact, merely a matter of hours. I take it there are various plans in place?"

"Yes, ma'am." Inspector Lestrade then went on to detail the organisation behind the proposed rail journey, with the three trains, and the several police units already in place in Manchester. Really, it seemed, there was nothing that had been left to chance.

"Inspector Lestrade has the railway journey locked tighter than a warlord's strongbox, ma'am." Gabrielle, who I noticed was nearly of a height with the Queen, smiled confidently. "Xena and I can take care of ourselves, too. We weren't sent from the pas—er, from Greece for nothing. We have fighting experience. We _can_ look after you on the journey."

For some considerable time Victoria looked at the small-framed, but intensely determined, blonde Greek woman; then came to a decision.

"I have only just met you, Miss Gabrielle, but I find you remarkably inspiring." She gave a small smile herself, which entirely transformed her features for the moment. "Sir Henry, give orders that this young person, Miss Gabrielle, travels in my carriage—and that her companion, Miss Xena also has access at any time. I have confidence in them both."

While the Private Secretary went across the room to confer with two other officials standing quietly in a corner Victoria gave our group a further searching inspection; after which she earmarked Rider Haggard.

"I remember quite well your work in the Transvaal with Sir Theophilus Shepstone, Mr Haggard." She seemed to have a wonderful memory, or Sir Henry Ponsonby was indeed a good secretary. "I take it your expertise with firearms is of prime importance in the present circumstances?"

"Yes, ma'am." Rider Haggard, after eyeing Her Majesty for a few seconds, decided on candour. "I can put a bullet through a playing card at 50 paces, ma'am. Give me one clear shot at him an' Moran is history! Although I have to admit I've had several attempts at him over the last couple of days, an' missed each time."

"But he also has missed his targets, Mr Haggard." Victoria showed surprising knowledge of recent events. "The only victim being the young lady here, who has a slight hand wound. I wish you a quick recovery, Miss Gabrielle. I am sure that when opportunity offers, Mr Haggard, you will be of immense help."

At this point a glint of what I might almost call jest seemed to sparkle in her eye momentarily.

"Dynamite, Inspector Lestrade!" Victoria sent this bow-shot towards the uncomfortable policeman with unexpected sharpness.

"Eh, what, ma'am!"

"I understand there are some sticks—how many, Sir Henry—of the explosive presently unaccounted for, somewhere in the metropolis?"

"They were stolen from Warehouse A in Cutler Street." Sir Henry had the relevant statistics at his fingertips. "Twenty-eight sticks of dynamite, ma'am. Any one of which could destroy a railway carriage."

"There's plans ready to counter that problem, I assure you, ma'am." Lestrade looked as if he urgently wanted to wipe his brow. "We can deal with that danger, er, difficulty, don't you worry ma'am."

"I do not worry, Inspector." Victoria looked at him with an expression at once completely calm and resolute. "I have complete faith in all the safety measures and security which surrounds me. I will not be harassed by a mad criminal in the exercise of my duties. My husband, particularly, would have expected no less of me—I shall not fail in my duty. I shall be in Manchester tomorrow, without fail."

"You _are_ a Queen—with a great heart, ma'am!" Xena, who absolutely towered over the small frame of Her Majesty, unexpectedly nodded her head in a mark of respect; which we all present silently concurred with.

"My people have the great heart, as you so kindly call it." Victoria gazed into the dark blue eyes of the tall woman standing a couple of yards from her. "_I_ only try always to do the best I can for my country."

With this Sir Henry raised an arm and ushered us all out of the Royal presence.

—OOO**—**

Memo by Gabrielle. (Maybe later I'll ask Dr Watson not to include this draft-note in his manuscript. In case I mention things about Xena and myself I shouldn't!):—

In a way it was just like attending an Amazon conference. The Palace was awe-inspiring. Absolutely huge, with a great Roman pillared front. Almost like being back in Rome. I could see Xena was unimpressed, as usual. When I mentioned the tall pillars she only sniffed and said '_Big houses make big piles of rubble! Anyways, how far away from the dining-room is the kitchen? Bet Vic hasn't had a really hot meal in years!_". We were getting out of a four-wheeler in the courtyard as she spoke and Rider Haggard, who was with us, nearly had a fit. "_Good God, Xena! You're talking about the Queen. Don't say things like that—to anybody! And, dear God, don't call her Vic again. I'm not sure that ain't treason._"

The man who seemed to be Victoria's Steward was clearly a military man and absolutely on top of his job. When we were ushered into the final room—at the other end of the palace, it seemed to me—she at first sight seemed astonishingly xsmal-x petite. In fact _I_ was taller than her—by a couple of these British inch things, I think. But her voice, or the way she spoke, soon showed anyone she was a Queen. I've seen the same in groups of Amazons. There are women present, young and mature, of all personalities—then someone speaks up and you realise they're competent and assured, and will do everything that's wanted of them. Victoria was like that.

She was very kind with everybody, especially Inspector Lestrade and Markham. When she remarked that she knew Markham had been a soldier in Ashanti in Africa years ago, and thanked him for his service, he went bright red and then seemed to gain three inches in stature and stand just as straight and proud as Sir Henry beside him.

We're going on to Euston Station next, to examine the train carriages and engines that will take us north to Manchester tomorrow morning. Whatever mad plans Moran has in his evil mind, they'll have to be good to beat Lestrade, Holmes, and Xena. I feel like I'm back in Greece, in our own time, and there's a battle coming with bandits, or Romans. All my Amazons know the plan; they know their objective; they know they can fight and beat their opponents; and they know victory is in their hands. That's how I feel now.

Xena has been sitting at the table while I've been writing this. She's just looked over my shoulder, and kissed me on the cheek, like she does sometimes for no obvious reason. She says she wants to write something herself?

—OOO**—**

It's the eve of battle. All plans are set. All our comrades willing to give of their best. Moran is somewhere out there—conjuring his evil spells. _We're_ all ready. I've got a fighting Amazon at _my_ side. And I read something in a book a few nights ago, Gabrielle! :—

'_When, in disgrace with fortune—I all alone beweep my outcast state,/And look upon myself, and curse my fate_/_Haply I think on thee—/For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings,/That then I scorn to change my state with kings._'*

Don't cry, Gabrielle, don't cry,—I'm here.

—OOO**—**

**Notes:—**

1. All words or phrases marked 'x . . .x' are meant to be strikethrough, cancelled, edited out phrases.

2. Cro-Magnons. Were the first Early Modern Humans appearing in Europe about 35,000 years ago.

3. Beaker people. Were a widely scattered culture of prehistoric Western Europe, starting in the late Neolithic and running into the early Bronze Age.

4. Post hole. This is a filled-in feature in the ground which originally was the hole for a wooden post holding up a building-wall or roof; mainly recognisable as circular patches of darker earth.

5. Longinus. Is the conventional name (because his real name is unknown) given to the author of a treatise, '_On the Sublime_', dated somewhere between the 1st to 3rd centuries A.D.

6. Elgin marbles. Are a collection of Greek marble sculptures and friezes which Thomas Bruce, 7th Earl of Elgin, removed from the Parthenon in Athens between 1801-1812. They were purchased by the British Government in 1816 and placed on display in the British Museum, London, where they remain.

7. Major-General Sir Henry Ponsonby (1825-1895) served as Private Secretary to Queen Victoria from 1870 to 1895.

8. Benjamin Disraeli. (1804-1881) was Conservative Prime Minister of Great Britain twice, first in 1868—then from 1874-1880.

9. '_Scorn—change my state with kings_'. Sonnet 29. Shakespeare.

—OOO**—**


	21. Warriors Captured for Posterity

—OOO**—**

**Chapter 21.**

Sunday. 1.30pm.— 20th May, 1894.

'**Warriors—Captured for Posterity'**

"Is it always this gloomy here, Inspector?"

Xena's question had been necessitated by the dark shadows under the canopy of the platform shed at Euston. The spreading roof with its multitude of dirt-covered glass panels was almost abnormally low and, coupled with the plethora of iron pillars holding it up, gave the series of long platforms underneath the aspect of a wide forest disappearing into the distance in all directions; even at midday.

"It ain't pretty, I'll give you that; but it's functional." Inspector Lestrade was implacable. Over the last few days, as the Opening ceremony in Manchester loomed ever closer, he had become much more serious and determined.

"And the noise!" Gabrielle put her hands to her ears as a large engine a few platforms away gave a preliminary screech of escaping steam before it slowly backed out, pushing a long line of carriages. "Gods, you can feel the ground vibrating as they move!"

"Why'd some of these machines push their er, carriages; while others are at the other end, pulling 'em?" Xena had spotted a curious detail and looked round for explanation.

Rider Haggard shrugged his shoulders, as having no idea of the answer. Markham seemed equally non-plussed; but wouldn't have been any use in a conversation anyway: still reeling slightly, as he was, under the shock of actually having earlier been spoken to, and praised, by Queen Victoria herself. Holmes kept his usual aloof distance, and Lestrade's mind was occupied with the multifarious details of the security operation. In effect it was left to me to answer the question.

"Some of the trains go off the mainline, to branch-line stations." I waved an arm at the departing train, now nearly lost in the murky distance. "They use either the branch station Goods yard to turn round the engine, or just run round to the other end of the string of carriages on a second line and re-connect, facing the other way. Then, when they rejoin the mainline they are then at the head of the train, facing forward. That's the general idea."

"Damned complicated business." Xena pursed her lips and frowned. "Lotta work in all that."

"Oh, it runs smoothly enough." Lestrade re-joined the discussion, after having had a few words with a nearby sergeant. "Only the odd accident, now and again. This here's the engine and coaches that _we'll_ all be travelling on. Designated as '_Security Train A_'. The other engines and coaches, including the Royal coach Victoria will travel in, are in the next two platforms along; under tight security as you can see."

At each of the three platforms there were a crowd of uniformed police constables and sergeants providing a guard at the platform entrance's, making sure only authorised personnel were allowed through. As we approached I noticed both women kept a respectful distance from the engine. The driver and fireman were present attending to their duties in the cab, outside which we all came to a standstill while Lestrade gave some explanations.

"All three trains will be hauled by the same class of engine; '_Improved_ _Precedents_' in our case." He glanced at the great curve of the boiler. "Very powerful machines, these. Could easily reach 80 mile an hour, if required."

"What!" Gabrielle, who appeared to do a quick mental sum, was obviously disbelieving. "Nothing can go that fast! It ain't possible."

"Beg to differ, ma'am." Lestrade was having none of it. If Greek tourists felt they were walking in a different world on coming to London, capital of the Empire, then they had only themselves to blame. "Wonderful things. Probably the fastest man-made engines in the world today! The LNWR on top of their game here, an' no mistake. They could haul us from here to Manchester in about 2 ½ hours or so, if Queen Victoria ever let them go that fast!"

"And how long will it actually take?" Xena looked keenly at the tall police-officer beside her. "I suppose we have to be there for a particular time?"

"Opening ceremony to begin at 12.30pm in the afternoon sharp." Lestrade nodded. "Victoria has asked for a speed of 30 miles an hour; which is ludicrous, of course. So I've had a word with Sir Henry Ponsonby, and the Commissioner at Scotland Yard. All three trains will keep a steady 40 miles an hour, as far as possible, all the way. What she don't know won't hurt her, eh!"

"What sequence are we travelling in?" Xena was still paying attention to details. "Are we in front or behind the Royal train?"

"There's been a lot of sweat over that, I admit." Lestrade looked a little gloomy at the memory of past conferences. "Mr Webb, the Chief Engineer, was a hard nut to crack; but finally he saw sense and agreed with our—the Police's—plan. '_Security Train B_'; that's essentially the permanent way staff with all their equipment, goes first. So they can attend to any problems or accidents on the line. Then comes the Royal Train, designated for security purposes as '_Peregrine_'. Then last comes '_Security Train A_'; that's us!"

"To mop up the blood and dispose of the bodies, eh!" Xena grunted her usual mirthless laugh, then regarded the horrified faces all round. "What?"

"That's a little too near the bone to be funny, Xena." Rider Haggard shook his head coldly. "We need a positive outlook on this affair from all concerned. We aim to win! We work to win! We will win! That's our motto for the next two days."

"Sorry, I'm sure!" Xena contrived to look at least a little remorseful.

Though from the glint I noticed in her eye, as she glanced at Gabrielle, I wondered how heartfelt her penitence really was!

For some time—in fact, a number of days past—I had been observing the Greek women, and trying to make my mind up as to their position and capabilities. I hadn't really discussed it with Holmes in detail, but had made some deductions on my own account; for what they were worth. Most obviously, their bearing and air of command gave me to suppose they were involved in the Greek military forces; in some capacity unknown. They were certainly skilled in fighting; as had been proved at the incidents in Belsize Park, '_The Prospect of Whitby_', and recently on the River. They were indeed fighters: one might almost designate them as Amazons.

This thought had occurred to me the previous evening, and ended with my searching through Holmes's collection of almanacs and encyclopaedias. My success had been rather less than I hoped, however. Apparently, if the actual Amazons of Classical Greek history were discounted, the only person in British history at all of a similar female military outlook was Boudica, Warrior Queen of the Iceni—and her dates were back in 60 AD or thereabouts! Their reasons for being here at all—that Moran was planning to go to Greece after he had accomplished his aims—seemed to me rather thin; if not completely transparent! Why did they want Colonel Moran dead—and it seemed they did indeed want him exterminated, not merely captured? It was all very curious, and not a little worrying; but I looked over at Holmes, and he appeared calm enough. Perhaps his logical mind had covered the same facts I had—but reached a far more satisfying conclusion! I certainly hoped so!

"Follow me, please." Inspector Lestrade walked along the platform, past the engine and its coal tender, to the second coach. "This here's the coach we'll be using as our main base. Step in by the door at the end here, if you will. This is a prototype coach. What's called a corridor-coach. Because it has er, a corridor running down one side connecting all compartments. In fact the coaches on this train, and the others, are also connected by covered gangways; so you can move through any of the coaches—even when they're in motion!"*

"I noticed, as we walked past, the first coach didn't seem to have as many windows as this one; and appeared empty inside?" Xena stepped up into the coach behind Gabrielle. "What's with that?"

"Ah, that's an empty goods coach, Miss Xena." Lestrade nodded knowingly; I suspect as a result of some earlier detailed discussions with the engine crew. "On a train like this there's generally one like that. It's for ballast and stability. If the first compartment-coach, with travellers, was connected straight to the back of the tender it would suffer increased vibration and shuddering from the engine's power. The empty coach provides a dampening effect. Most ordinary passenger trains have a goods coach or two at the head of the rake, next the engine, for that very reason."

With this lecture on the minutiae of a train's make-up ringing in our mostly uncomprehending ears we all walked down the somewhat narrow corridor. Xena and Gabrielle seemed much interested in the design of the compartments, and appeared quite amused by the idea of reclining in comfort on the seats for the whole length of a long journey. Then we emerged onto the platform again at the other end of the coach. Here there was another surprise awaiting us.

"May I introduce Mr Ambrose Crispin. Photographer-to-the-Gentry." Lestrade waved his arm in a proprietary manner. "He's now goin' to take our portraits. Capture us all for Posterity, as it were! In a group. Standing beside the engine. Purely for record purposes, you understand."

"Xena and I saw some photographs, is that what they're called, in the British Museum." Gabrielle nodded knowingly, just as if this was not the first time she had seen a camera. "Remarkable pictures they make. But don't it take a long time for the artist to paint them; especially of a group, like us?"

"Bless you, ma'am." Lestrade put a hand to his bowler and settled it more firmly on his head. His clear belief, that some folk took a great deal of explaining to about almost everything, was plainly evident in his weary tone. "It only takes a few seconds, then we can move on about more important business. If we all go back to the engine, if you please."

The photographer was a short thin man, with a head of unruly thick grey hair. He seemed about 45 years of age, and was accompanied by a younger assistant in his early twenties carrying various mysterious boxes, and the unwieldy trestle-stand. Mr Crispin held the camera itself. It was a large brass-bound box; almost like a small tea-chest—and apparently just as heavy. There then followed some delay as both men set about the arcane system of setting up, loading, and focussing the machine. While this was going forward Gabrielle interested herself in her surroundings, as we all gathered in an uncomfortable group by the engine's side.

"Hey, look!" She gestured at the large brass plate over the canopy protecting the first of the two driving wheels. "It's the one called '_Amazon_'. That's a good omen, eh Xena?"

"Couldn't be better, gal." Xena's reply was both slightly ironic yet warm, as she grinned at her companion.

Mr Crispin now proclaimed his readiness to proceed by waving his arms and coming forward to shepherd everyone into a tighter group; at the same time trying to politely push or browbeat the women into standing closer to the engine, which both were determined not to do. We were close enough to hear the hissing and bubbling of the internal boiler pipes; almost physically feel the quivering of the whole vast machine, like an enormous monster about to come to life; and feel the heat emanating from its vast curved body, along with the smell of hot metal and engine oil. Frankly, it made me somewhat nervous, being so close to so much barely contained power. The women were definitely wary.

"What's that the servant's holding? By the side of his master—er, whatever he's called!" Gabrielle was looking intently at the young man in question.

"Hardly a servant, I think." Rider Haggard spoke casually as we all jockeyed for place beside each other. "Assistant would be nearer the mark. And I take it you refer to the photographer—or camera-man, as they are often named."

"Whatever." Gabrielle seemed not at all put out by Haggard's gently chiding tone. "But what's he doin', that's the thing?"

"That's the light-powder instrument, ma'am." Markham broke in with this unexpected piece of knowledge, from where he was squeezed uncomfortably between Haggard and Holmes. "When the photographer opens his lens-cap, the youngster'll set-off the magnesium powder. A regular explosion o' smoke there'll be—an' the brightest white light you've ever seen! It'll blind yer, fer certain—at least fer a few seconds, like."

"Oh, that's just great!" Xena was certainly unimpressed by the coming event. Which she showed by the determined shove she gave my shoulder as we all manoeuvred for the best position. "Another explosion! So, it's Belsize Park all over again, eh?"

"Hardly on that scale, Miss Xena." Holmes felt constrained to introduce a touch of calm logic to the proceedings. "Only a simple, but effective, method of introducing some artificial light to make the photograph sufficiently clear to give a good print."

"Now then everyone, stand still if you please." Mr Crispin broke cover from the black cloth he had been hiding under behind the camera to gaze mournfully at the waiting vict—people. "All together in a nice tight group, eh. You madam, with the long black hair and the dark red skirt—does that shade really suit you, d'you think? Anyway, kindly step closer to the engine, and the blonde lady. Come along, madam, closer than that. Good Heavens, madam, closer yet—is she your friend—or a creditor you owe money to! Oh, I suppose that'll have to do. Madam—yes, you madam—with the blonde hair—kindly stand still. If you keep shuffling like that you'll only be a blur on the plate. And try to smile, please—that expression won't do at all! Ready! Ready! Gregory, when I say '_Go_' fire the powder!"

Finally, for a brief instant, everybody stood still in unison. Mr Crispin, obviously a past master of this situation, grasped his chance and yelled the magic word; at the same time removing the lens-cap with a graceful flourish of his left hand.

With no preliminary warning there was a puff of greyish smoke—and a flash of the brightest whitest light that could be imagined. We were indeed blinded for several seconds before recovering our sight. When I looked around most of us were rubbing our eyes, but the two women had taken defensive postures. Xena held her chakram and was gazing at the crouching photographer like a lion watching its prey. Gabrielle held two of her long knives and had bared her teeth in a snarl, even while her eyes still watered at the corners. The look of deadly intent in her expression certainly made my blood run cold for a moment. Then Holmes reassured them with a cold word or two.

"It is customary, I believe, to thank the photographer for his efforts—not threaten bodily harm!" He looked from one to the other of the women, then turned to Mr Crispin. "Please excuse the ladies. They come from a foreign country—where the social camaraderie of life is somewhat more uninhibited. Xena—Gabrielle—please put those weapons away!"

As the ladies complied, still a little cautiously, Mr Crispin proceeded to dismantle his equipment, with the help of the young wide-eyed Gregory.

"Hum! I've been called names; and had tomatoes thrown at me; and been chased down the Tottenham Court Road; but this is definitely one for my memoirs." He didn't seem as shocked as I expected, and continued calmly instructing his assistant in collecting the various bits of apparatus. "Plate'll be developed this afternoon, and it and the prints sent round to the Yard this evening, Inspector. Very nice doing business with the Constabulary, I'm sure. Though I don't expect I'll make a habit of it. Goodbye, gentlemen. Ladies!"

With this somewhat reserved, indeed off-hand, adieu to the women he turned on his heel and both men disappeared into the vast shadowy wastes of the platform shed; never to be seen, by myself at least, again.

"That'll make a good picture for the Records & Filing Department back at Scotland Yard. And now that's over—the Royal Coach!" Inspector Lestrade spoke these words with a wealth of satisfaction, mixed with relief. "If you haven't been amazed before, prepare to be amazed now—this way."*

On our arrival at the second platform, and entrance into the indicated coach, we all did indeed express various comments. Mostly approving; though the ladies, as we had come to expect, were a little reserved. The main difference at once apparent was the open-plan nature of the interior. No corridor with several compartments; but instead a long open saloon furnished with settees, couches, and padded armchairs. The whole delicately set off by a number of small tables scattered around; beautiful Persian carpets on the floor; and floral chintz curtains. All very fine indeed.

"I could live here!" Gabrielle sniggered as she took the hand of her tall companion, and gazed up and down the resplendent living-space. "This is my kind'a house!"

"Don't I know it!" Xena laughed herself, obviously well aware of her friend's tastes. "But lookin's all you're gettin', lady! An' don't sit on the chairs; they're reserved for the Royal bu—er, for the Queen!"

Back on the platform we all stood around in that uncomfortable, slightly nervous, manner so often seen by groups about to depart to their various homes, after giving some traveller diffident farewells from a railway station.

"So, it's tomorrow then?" Gabrielle expressed the fact uppermost in everyone's thoughts, as the everyday work of the station went on all round us.

"Yes. 6.30am sharp, if you please." Inspector Lestrade nodded and gave us all a determined glare. "Early, I know, but the Queen'll be here just as early; so make the best you can of it. To miss the morning rush-hour, y'see. This place is Bedlam anytime between 8.00am and 9.45am."*

"So, all our work comes to a head tomorrow?" Xena, in her turn, examined everyone present with a reflective air. "We've been blown up by dynamite; shot at with high-powered rifles; ridden in high-speed chases through the streets; been threatened by Colonel Moran in person; attacked on the Thames—an' now it's all down to one long railway journey. What'll happen, I wonder?"

"What'll happen is that Moran will finally discover what _Nemesis_ really means." Gabrielle spoke with a cold resolve, as she again looked at Xena. "A righteous infliction of retribution manifested by an appropriate agent. Personified in this case by Xena. He ain't got a chance!"*

—OOO—

**Notes:—**

1. Corridor-coaches. They were not generally widely available for use till around 1900-1905, which is why the ones in my story are referred to as prototypes. The LNWR (London & North Western Railway) was the first to introduce such coaches in Britain. As early as 1869 they had two of the Royal Train saloons fitted with corridor connections; though Victoria prefered to use the connection only when the train was stationary. See Wiki.

2. Photographic glass plate negative and prints. So, are we to understand that somewhere in the dusty archives of the Filing Department at Scotland Yard there rests a previously unknown photograph of Xena and Gabrielle?

3. Bedlam. The Bethlam Royal Hospital, Bromley, London, is a psychiatric hospital now run by the National Health Service. The nickname derives from its earlier, notorious, history. See Wiki.

4. '_Nemesis—infliction of retribution_'. A famous quote by the character Brick Top, in Guy Ritchie's film '_Snatch_'.

—OOO—


	22. Willesden Junction

—OOO**—**

**Chapter 22.**

Monday. 6.30am.— 21th May, 1894. The end-game begins.

'**Willesden Junction'**

"Sorry I'm late!" Markham gasped breathlessly as he struggled aboard the centre carriage of our train, with a large kitbag hanging from a shoulder-strap. "Couldn't get a' Hansom fer love or money. They must've all gone 'ome ter their everlovin' better 'alfs. Only managed to collar one at Westminster Bridge. The driver didn't half give me the once-over before he let me climb in."

"Don't worry, there's no sign of any movement here yet." Haggard cheered the man with a grin. "Inspector Lestrade only turned up ten minutes ago, himself."

"Yeah, I don't think the engine drivers have woken up, either." Xena gave a growling sort of laugh. "You can dump your gear in the third compartment; that's yours. Lestrade's gone along to the Queen's train for orders."

Markham nodded and glanced around at those of us waiting in the rather tight corridor. He was dressed in a respectable grey woollen suit and solid black boots, with a new round-topped bowler. The whole rig-out making him look more like a prosperous shopowner than, er, his natural self.

"Mr Holmes, I don't know if I did wrong—but I brought my own firearm, if that's alright?"

"Oh, nothing could be better." Holmes spoke somewhat morosely, having previously wished guns to play as little part as possible in the coming affray. "At least you won't need to borrow from Haggard's arsenal!"

"What have you got, Markham?" Rider Haggard, on his part, spoke with keen interest. "Not too old a type, I hope. Is it in good repair?"

For answer Markham delved in his kitbag and produced a long-barrelled brown coloured revolver which he held out for inspection.

"Hah, a Smith & Wesson .44." Rider Haggard hefted the lumpish looking weapon, with its round thin curved butt. "A solid piece, Markham. Looks an early mark."

"1874, sir." Markham nodded. "I used it in the last year o' my army service. Once brought down a chargin' buffalo, with only two shots! Good job, too. Wouldn't have had time for a third!"

"Well, you seem to have taken good care of it." He handed it back to Markham. "Better put it safely in your pocket."

"Another weapon I'll have to pretend I know nothing about!" Lestrade, stepping back into the corridor from the platform at this moment, looked gloomier than ever. "I can see my report after this affair is going to be more evasion an' lies than direct fact."

-O-

"The Queen's train's just pulled out, Inspector." This came from the Station-Master himself, in full regalia for the occasion. "_Your_ train'll be moving off presently."

From his position on the platform he nodded to another railway official at his side. This man raised a rectangular green flag and, turning, waved it towards the rear of the train; not at, as one would expect, the engine. Both railway-men stepped back a few paces, then another signal must have come from the guards van at the far end of the train for a mighty hiss and whistle of escaping steam showed to all and sundry our engine was ready to depart.

"Is this thing actually goin' to move along these rails?" Gabrielle sounded less than happy, as she clutched a window-handle beside her in the crowded corridor. "This coach is long an' heavy—Gods, feel it lurch. How can it possibly stay on those thin rails, an' go fast too?"

"Oh, it's all down to friction; centres of gravity; centrifugal force; and sustained momentum." Holmes spoke off-handedly, while we all staggered slightly as the coach began to move jerkily along the platform. "The mathematical equation which relates all these together into a coherent unity is quite straight-forward."*

Having divested himself of this fact Holmes stepped into our shared compartment and slid-to the door behind him, leaving several of his audience scratching their chins.

"What's centre-frugal force?" Gabrielle looked from Xena to the rest of us enquiringly.

"What's sustained whats'it-um?" Xena herself seemed in the dark.

None of the rest of us appeared up to launching into scientific explanations so early in the morning; always supposing any of us actually knew the answers—which I beg to doubt. So the ladies questions merely resulted in a deathly silence. In fact it was Gabrielle who finally broke the awkward interlude.

"Xena—Xena!"

"Yes, ducks?" The dark warrior had clearly been learning the vernacular dialect in the course of her stay in London. "What's wrong now, we've hardly started."

"You feel this—this, er, rockin', rollin', sorta swayin'-around motion?" The blonde woman cautiously took stock of the vibrating coach as it picked up speed and left the platform behind. "The floor's trembling—and the whole coach is—is juddering —an' you can see the horizon, out the windows, quivering an' rollin up an' down, like—"

"—a _ship_! Oh Gods!" Xena turned to her companion with a shake of the head. "You can't possibly be sea—"

Just as she spoke the train went over the first set of points outside the station, making the whole coach shudder from side to side like a rocking-horse. We were grouped near the entrance, at the start of the corridor that ran down the left side of the coach. Gabrielle jumped to the closed door; pulled the window down; and stuck her head far out. I need hardly describe the following few seconds, except to say they were traumatic.

-O-

We all eventually retired to the compartment shared by Holmes and I. Gabrielle soon began to show signs of recovery from her sudden bout of '_mal de mer_' and we went on to discuss plans for the next part of the journey, after leaving Willesden Junction.

"Everyone feeling fit now? Good." Lestrade twirled his bowler in his left hand and cleared his throat somewhat nervously as he looked around at the assembled throng. "Just had a conversation with Sir Henry Ponsonby, before we left Euston. Seems Victoria wants Markham in her private saloon, when we all reach Willesden Junction! She wanted Gabrielle there too; but I persuaded Ponsonby Gabrielle would be more useful beside Xena here."

"What! _Me_, on the Royal Train—wiv the Queen?" Markham seemed absolutely stunned by this news. "I can't do that! I mean, I can't d—"

"Yes, you can." Gabrielle stepped into the breach with a smile, putting her hand gently on the man's shoulder. "You can take care of yourself. And you look fine in those clothes. Like a rich merchant. I'm surprised Xena hasn't tried to borrow money off you yet. Come on, you'll be fine. Victoria must have taken a liking to you—maybe because you used to be a soldier?"

"Markham and I will transfer to the Royal Train when we reach Willesden Junction." Inspector Lestrade dragged an enormous silver pocket-watch from the internal depths of his long coat and considered the dial with a suspicious glare, as if daring it to be wrong. "That'll be in about twenty minutes time. We're ten minutes behind schedule now, as it is."

Several minutes passed busily as we all saw to our weapons and equipment. Some had kit-bags; some shoulder-bags; others just heavy coats with large pockets. Xena had her chakram at her waist; and Gabrielle had two evil looking daggers strapped to the outside of her heavy boots. As we all watched the women coolly took off their loose top-jackets and, producing the weapons from canvas rolls they had with them, proceeded to strap sheaths and short-bladed swords to their backs. At this point I noticed their skirts were no longer the ankle length which current fashion dictated, but much nearer knee height and slit high above that. Xena noticed my gaze and laughed her peculiarly unhumurous laugh.

"They're our working clothes, Dr Watson. We need freedom of movement if we have to attack quickly and efficiently.'

"But what about Moran's proficiency with a rifle?" Haggard asked this pertinent question with concern in his face.

"Rifles are long range." Xena grinned evilly. "_We_ work at close range. His weapon of choice is no good in the confines of a coach corridor or compartment. All we need is to get close enough; say anywhere in the same carriage, and he's done for!"

We talked between ourselves as our preparations continued, but had hardly come to any firm conclusions, when the train perceptibly braked then began moving on at an unusually slow speed.

"What's up?" Xena was first with the question, looking out at the unappealing rows of houses and back-courts sliding past on either hand.

"We're coming into Willesden Junction." Inspector Lestrade brushed a speck of dust from his flat-topped bowler. "Have to be careful as our train'll be coming into the same platform as the Queen's train; which'll be waiting our arrival."

"Can two trains do that?" Gabrielle peered out the window, trying to get a view forward. "Stop together on the same platform at the same time, I mean."

"Generally not." Lestrade pursed his lips. "If the situation occurred under normal rostered duties there'd be hell to pay, I can tell you! But with special circumstances surrounding the present, er, convoy the Directors just had to accept matters. A great tearing of hair; damning it all to hell; and forecasting the end o' the world as we know it, would be a fair description of the last Board meeting of the LNWR Directors, I'd say."

"What's all these mounds of earth, trenches, wheelbarrows, and gangs of men milling around in aid of?" Gabrielle viewed the unusual activity evident on both sides of the track as we entered the outskirts of the many platforms and rail-lines which made up the intricate junction. "Looks like they're busy tearing the place down around our ears, and the other travellers."

"There's a bit o' rebuilding going on at the moment." Lestrade glanced out the window as he stood up.

"Not before time." Rider Haggard grunted somewhat mirthlessly. "A pal of mine once told me he had wanted to go to Northampton. Changed trains at Willesden Junction. Next he knew he was dis-embarking in Glasgow, Scotland!"

"Humph." Lestrade paused to consider this remark. "If I had a sovereign for every time I've heard variations o' _that_ story—well, I'd be comfortably retired by now, an' that's a fact."*

-O-

"We're just goin' to our own compartment to pick up a few, er, useful items." Xena took Gabrielle's arm and steered her into the corridor. "See y'all in a short while."

Holmes came out of his reverie and looked from Haggard to me; Markham and Lestrade had already gone into the corridor preparatory to leaving our train.

"Those two women are still a mystery to me, Watson." He shook his head disapprovingly. "But what is obvious is their determination to hold Colonel Moran to account. When they catch up with him I worry about the likely outcome."

"Come, Holmes." Rider Haggard echoed my own doubts. "They can hardly hope to be successful by themselves, with what amount only to antique weapons. After all swords and daggers, however well handled, can hardly oppose a high-powered rifle or revolvers. I worry about _their_ safety."

"Never underestimate other people's capabilities, Haggard." Holmes shook his head. "If you recall the battle in '_The Prospect of Whitby_'; that was something of an eye-opener. They showed themselves excellent fighters there, I believe."

The train chose this moment to come to a halt at the long platform, behind the Royal train. On our left was the stone-paved concourse, waiting-rooms and booking-offices under a wide glass canopy supported at intervals by thin iron pillars; while a certain number of officials stood around in groups, trying to look professional and on top of their game. Not quite as easy as might be supposed, considering so many seemed to be wearing the baggiest uniform trousers and jackets I have ever seen. This is something that has often come to my attention when studying old photos of military or public occasions: almost always most male persons represented appear to be clothed in scruffy cast-offs. Perhaps it is some arcane feature of the act of photography itself; recording a dull merciless reality we often don't notice at the time?

There was now a great deal of movement on the platform, and also between the Royal Train and ours. The first coach behind the engine of our train was a baggage coach loaded with gear for the group of soldiers and police officers who travelled with us. They being housed in the third coach, that behind ours, where some 25 individuals were quartered. After this, at the extreme end of the train formation, came the guards-van. There the guard himself, accompanied by two police officers, secured the rear of the train.

Lestrade and Markham left us at this point; the last I saw of them being Markham's curious rolling gait as he reached the Royal Train and entered behind the Inspector. That left Holmes, myself, Haggard, Xena and Gabrielle on our train. As well as the platoon of soldiers and police officers in the next coach.

After a time there came a whistle from the Royal Train; a loud shrill noise of escaping steam; then a sustained clanking as the coaches moved forward and away. Soon the rumble died away in the distance and a resplendent figure, outshining even his colleague back at Euston in the variety of his uniform, dashed breathlessly down the platform to gesture somewhat excitedly in our direction.

"Time for you to continue." The station-master was obviously under strain from the unusual importance of the occasion. "I've told the guard and driver to be sure of their timings and position. This multiple-train block working is a disgrace, in my opinion. Nothing surer to bring danger or disaster. The imbecile who thought it up needs _locking_ up. Right, you're off. Remember, no less than half a mile between you and the Royal Train at any time."

An assistant by his side raised the now ubiquitous green flag and waved it in a formidable manner towards the guards-van. A few seconds later a shriek from our own engine's whistle showed the driver had got the message. As we sat back from the open window of our compartment the door slid open and Xena entered, with a somewhat sneering smile.

"Tells us to keep our distance from the train in front. Ha, how're we supposed to have any say in that?" She sat down opposite us on the bench-seat, adjusting the circular chakram at her side. "What does he want us to do—jump on the roof and climb along to the engine to give instructions?"

"That might be possible in other countries—but not in England." Holmes gave a bark of mirth. "The bridges over the track, carrying lanes and roads, are generally so low there is usually no more than a bare four inches or so between the coach roof and the bridge. That also applies to the side of the coach and the side of the bridge. No room to spare at all. There is also no corridor between the first coach and the engine—never minding the presence of the coal and water tender. No, the engine-driver and his fireman are on their own. _We_ can only sit back and await the journey's end."

"That worries me." Xena spoke seriously as she gazed at us. Then she leaned forward with a pointing finger. "Mr Holmes, are you aware that if Moran somehow manages to shoot the engine crew we're done for?"

"An event that Inspector Lestrade has assured me cannot happen." Holmes raised his eyebrows and hunched his shoulders in an almost European manner. "There are numerous railway workers and police strategically placed at intervals all along the route. They are themselves armed; with instructions not to wait on the actions of anyone suspicious but to fire at will and ask questions later. Not a very subtle plan, but it has its merits in an emergency."

"There'll be a few poachers wishing they'd stayed in bed today from the sound of it." Rider Haggard gave as mirthless a laugh as Xena could have accomplished. "I think —"

We were never destined to receive his words of wisdom however, for at this moment Gabrielle re-entered the compartment; and it was at once obvious to one and all that her features were, to quote the Bard, '_sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought_'.*

"I was looking back towards the rear of this, er, train just after you left, Xena." She sat beside her friend with a worried frown. "At the, um, guards-van. I thought there wasn't going to be any change of people there, like we had planned. But just as the train moved off—after the guard had waved his pretty green flag at the engine-driver—I saw another railwayman come from somewhere in the shadows and jump on the open end of the van. He was dressed in a railway uniform, but he had a haversack and a long container slung over his shoulder—and he was enormously tall. Xena, do you think —"

"Oh, my God." Rider Haggard looked around at the rest of us in shock.

"Oh, my God." I too gave vent to this careworn expression almost automatically as the substance of the blonde woman's words filtered through to my mind.

"Damnation!" Xena rose swiftly and swung the compartment door aside to look down the corridor. "Is the guards-van connected to the last coach by corridor as well?"

"I fear not." Holmes gave this information in a calm voice which, I think, belied his racing thoughts. "The end coach has a locked rear door, but no ensuing corridor. And the guards-van will have a blank side against the back of the train. It might just be possible to break through with axes, I expect."

"We gotta try something." Xena glanced at us with bared teeth and an angry frown. "Whatever Moran's up to back there, we have'ta stop him."

Before we could give further thought to the problem Xena stepped aside to let the dark-uniformed figure of a police officer through.

"Mr Holmes, sir, instructions from my sergeant." The officer was hardly more than a boy, and greatly excited. "We heard two shots coming from the guards-van behind our coach. Sergeant thinks something's up, an' you oughta know about it."

"Gabrielle, come on." Xena darted down the corridor closely followed by her companion, who had jumped up to join the dark-haired Valkyrie with amazing alacrity. "Haggard, bring your best gun!"

"What's going to happen now?" I felt impelled to ask this rather superfluous question, as even Holmes was on his feet now; with a gleam of excitement in his eye.

"We're goin' to do for Moran; before he does for us!" Echoed from the further end of the corridor. Whether from Xena or Gabrielle I could not tell in the uproar as several other police officers arrived to almost fill the narrow passage.

"You've got your service revolver, Watson? Good!" Rider Haggard passed something to Holmes, then leaned down to unwrap a long canvas roll which had lain unobtrusively on the netting luggage rack over his head. "That's a .45. It'll go through an oak door, Holmes, so be careful. I have my Holland & Holland elephant gun. You might want to stop your ears if I let loose next to you. It goes off like a bloody cannon!"

"What's going to happen?" I found myself repeating my earlier question in something of a daze.

"What's going to happen is probably a shooting battle that'll make the gunfight at the OK Corral look like a minor tiff at a children's tea-party."* Rider Haggard continued calmly loading a shell into the massive breech of his heavy double-barrelled rifle. "That's what's going to happen!"

—O**—**

**Notes:—**

1. "The mathematical equation . . .". Holmes was liable to off-hand remarks of this nature. See '_Silver Blaze_',—'_We are going well.' said he, glancing at his watch. 'Our rate at present is fifty-three and a half miles an hour. . . The telegraph posts upon this line are sixty yards apart, and the calculation is a simple one_.' Actually such a mathematical problem is complex.

2. "If I had a sovereign . .". Willesden Junction. This was a highly intricate railway junction with many lines and platforms, which was christened '_Bewildering Junction_', or '_The Wilderness_' by disorientated Victorian travellers trying to find their correct platform or train. It appears as '_Tenway Junction_' in Anthony Trollope's 1876 novel '_The Prime Minister_'. It was redesigned slightly more logically and re-opened in August 1894.

3. "sicklied o'er. . " Quote from Shakespeare's '_Hamlet_' Act 3, scene 1. From the famous '_To be or not to be_' soliloquy.

4. Gunfight at the OK Corral. This took place in 1881, in Tombstone, Arizona Territory; between Wyatt Earp with his two brothers Morgan and Virgil, Doc Holliday; and opposing them, members of the Clantons and McLaurys.

—OOO**—**


	23. Colonel Moran Fights Back

—OOO**—**

**Chapter 23.**

Monday. 7.30am.— 21th May, 1894. The end-game continues.

'**Colonel Moran Fights Back'**

Xena ran through the connecting passage to the last coach, thrusting with a fierce imperiousness through the tightly packed groups of soldiers and police officers filling the corridor. Gabrielle and I following hard on her heels with Haggard and Holmes trailing somewhere behind.

"Where's the sergeant—and the lieutenant?" The warrior barked this question as she made her way to the rear of the rocking coach, with its closed door at the corridor's end. "Locked. Is there a key for this door? Anyone got a key?"

A uniformed officer briskly pushed his way through the crowd towards us. He seemed barely more than a lad but had a definite authority over his men, who made way before his advance.

"No key, I'm afraid." The lieutenant spoke with a cultured accent, and calm manner. "There's no door in the guards-van on that side, so no way through."

"Well, we gotta _make_ a way through—and damn quick, too."

Xena looked carefully at the door, then took a step back, raised one booted foot and kicked savagely. The frame round the catch splintered with a loud tearing of wood and the door lurched slightly inwards.

"Attagirl!" Gabrielle nodded as if this was no great thing; while the officer stood by, dumbfounded. "We're Greek, y'know. We women, er, do things differently in Greece."

Faced with this astounding demonstration the lieutenant rallied bravely.

"Sergeant, issue the men with those pistols and rifles stored in the third compartment." He glanced at the soldiers behind him, nervously awaiting their orders. "I want four of your best men on each side of the coach at the windows. Any attempt at firing from the van—shoot to kill. What do you intend doing next, madam? My general orders are to give you, and the police, all necessary assistance."

Xena wrenched the door wide, holding a hand to her face as the dust-laden breeze wafted in from the space between the coach and the blank wall of the guards-van. The train was now travelling at the regulation speed of forty plus miles an hour, and the wind blew Xena's black hair around wildly. The growling rumble of the wheels going over the track was also almost ear-splitting, so that everyone had to raise their voices to be heard.

"What now, Xena?" Gabrielle stood beside her friend, blonde hair blowing around her eyes.

"It'll probably take half an hour to hack through that wooden side with an axe." This was my contribution to the task in hand as I stood behind the two women, gasping for breath. "It's made of teak, and'll be almost as hard as steel."

Xena leaned out and took a glance back and forth at the layout between the coach and van, then stepped back.

"Not much room, but I could scramble across." Xena looked at Gabrielle with a lifted eyebrow. "Depends on the bridges whether I can get on the roof, or along the side to a window."

"Do you think that's wise?" I felt impelled to remark on the obvious dangers. "Especially for, er, a woman in such circumstances. Shouldn't we wait for Holmes, or better still Rider Haggard to appear?"

"Doctor, I know what I'm doing." The expression on Xena's face as she looked at me was-was-almost contemptuous. "There's times when ya need a man t'do something; there's times when ya need a woman t'do something; an' then there's times when ya need _me_ t'do something. Any questions? No, I thought not."

"There won't be much hope of a window, Xena." Though somewhat subdued by the outcome of this fracas I still felt it necessary to make clear a pertinent fact. "These vans don't have large side-windows, if any at all; just one open end with a sort of verandah where the guard can stand to see what's going on."*

"Gods! A moving prison cell. Only we need'ta break _into_ it!" Gabrielle's voice was full of frustration.

Xena looked out again then stepped between the two rocking vehicles, placing her foot on a thin wooden ledge running along the lower edge of the van. Then she leaned across to get a hold on the side of the guards-van. Gripping a small metal projection she moved along, above the clanking swinging connecting chains and buffers, and carefully glanced out on the left-hand side of the van and coach as the train travelled forward; her skirt rippling frenziedly against her legs in the strong current of air blowing over her body. Then she turned back to shout to Gabrielle who was standing at the door with me.

"There's quite wide foot-boards on the coach _and_ the van." Xena grinned broadly as if she was merely out for a stroll, though her eyes were watering with the wind. "I can easily slip along the side of the van. There's a handy metal hand-rail at just the right height too. Gives plenty of room for me along the van side, even if we pass under a bridge. Easy! No windows though. What's the layout of the verandah at the end of the van, Dr Watson?"

I paused to consider this question, bringing all my powers of memory to bear. Finally I leaned out precariously and cupped a hand round my mouth, while Gabrielle held the belt of my coat for safety.

"There'll be a waist-high door, and a large horizontal metal wheel atop a vertical metal bar in the open space under the roof." I frowned in concentration. "That's for the brakes. The guard can slow the whole train with that, if he chooses. Probably also a low box with a lid for tools; then just the full height door to the interior. No compartments inside, just a large single space with a couple of benches, lockers, and a table. There'll probably be a number of paraffin or oil lamps lying around inside, too; with containers for their fuel. That's about it."*

"Right! Tell that officer to make sure his men shoot straight if Moran tries to use his own weapons." Xena gave a quick grin at Gabrielle. "I don't wanna be a sitting duck, if he starts anything."

With this she twisted out from the side of the van where she was clinging precariously, grabbed something I couldn't see, and vanished from view. Gabrielle then clambered across till she could see along the van, bracing her back against the coach, and gave a running commentary from there; her blonde hair blowing wildly in the fierce wind.

"With that hand-rail, and the wide foot-board, it's just like walking down the main road of Athens." She gave me, astonishingly, a relaxed grin. "Nothing to it! Xena'll be at the end in a jiffy."

As if to belie this over-confident prediction there came a shot from the rear of the guards-van, making Gabrielle jump back to the protection of the space between the coaches. Instantly, in answer to this first gambit of Moran, came a fusillade of fire from our own coach on that side. The soldiers, obviously, were taking no lessons in rifle-fire from the Colonel.

"It's OK." Gabrielle turned to me again, after peering round the edge of the van once more; this time more cautiously. "Xena's not hurt. He used one of those—what d'you call 'em—hand guns? Maybe he ain't as good with them as a long gun—a rifle? That burst of fire from our soldiers has knocked lumps outta the edge of the van at the far end, though; good job Xena ducked. D'you think Moran's maybe still hindered by that shoulder wound he got back on the Thames. Remember the '_Cutty Sark_'? Who _was_ it who did that; me, or Haggard, or Xena? Anyway's, she's still heading for the verandah."

By this time both Rider Haggard and Holmes had joined me, crowded in the narrow open door where we stood trying to protect our eyes from the flying dust and our ears from the din of the wheels on the track. Their expressions amply reflected the opinion that Xena had embarked on a foolhardy exploit; but there was nothing any of us could do now.

"I tell you, when this is over I'm going to take a really long holiday." Rider Haggard spoke with resolute determination. "For some reason the Far East comes to mind. I believe Markham isn't so far out in saying Singapore is the place to retire to. Colour, atmosphere, peace and quiet, and a really nice hotel! The idea's been growing on me more each day, lately!"

At this juncture we all suddenly became aware for the first time of something which we had overlooked. Namely that we were travelling on a stretch of line which was double-track. We were on the left-hand line as we headed on our journey and the second, presently empty, track ran parallel on our right; the opposite side from where Xena was edging carefully along the guards-van. Empty till now that is. As we all three peered at Gabrielle, who was leaning out dangerously between the coach and van to get a better view of Xena, there came a passing shadow on our other side followed by the thunderous roar of another steam engine coming up alongside.

The engine, I saw at a glance, was the same type as those used in our own three-train convoy; namely a 2-4-0 '_Precedent_'. This was not in itself surprising as this was the workhorse of the LNWR, with a couple of hundred in operation. What was surprising, and something that Holmes instantly perceived, was its staying level with us at a constant speed.

"That train isn't passing by." Holmes stepped to a side-window to examine the first coach of the opposite train as its engine and tender moved forward out of our view. "I think they're trying to keep up with us. Is it possible Moran has henchmen on it? Perhaps they mean to fire a broadside at us."

"I don't think so." Rider Haggard took a closer look at the train himself. "It's too easy for us just to crouch down out of the line of fire. And these coaches are built like battleships—it'd take more than a few fusillades of mere rifle-fire to make any impression."

I turned round from my position at the open door, where I was keeping an eye on Gabrielle, to see what I could for myself; which was not much given the restricted view I had.

"I thought all other running would be halted while the Royal Train went by anywhere on the route?" I made this remark to the general company, as it seemed to me a logical supposition.

"No." Holmes scotched this idea at once. "The other route timetables are so complex it would simply be impossible to stop them, or even slow them down significantly. I cannot understand how Moran —if he is behind it—could possibly have commandeered an entire train. The mind boggles!"

As he spoke another shot rang out from the far end of the guards-van; Moran obviously not yet giving up hope of holding back Xena's advance on him. Again there was a scattered burst of return fire from the soldiers stationed at the open windows of our coach.

"Moran hasn't lost his accuracy. The bullet ricocheted off her chakram." Gabrielle's voice, though strong, echoed with a wealth of relief. "That's a new use for it. Trust her!"

On the far side of the coach entrance area where everyone was grouped, a police-sergeant had been keeping a watchful eye on the progress of our own train. Now he hurriedly darted his head in from the window he'd been looking out.

"There's a bridge coming up—and the lady's on the nearside. The bridge wall'll only miss her by inches, if she's lucky!" He glanced from one to the other of us with a white face. "She better hang on tight."

I jumped to the coach door, stuck my head into the strong wind whipping around between the coach and van, and shouted with all my power to Gabrielle.

"Bridge! Bridge coming up." I saw her blonde head turn to face me and redoubled my efforts. "Tell Xena to grip the handrail and keep a firm foothold."

Gabrielle leaned out and I heard her frantic shouts, though I couldn't make out the words. Possibly she was speaking in Greek. Then suddenly she dived back to safety between the coaches and ducked her head. In another instant, for a brief second, there was a fleeting black shadow as the bridge cut out the sunlight while we passed under it; then a blast of air literally knocked me back into the arms of Holmes, standing just behind me, as the pressure-wave caused by the bridge shot between the vehicles.

"She's lost her footing!" Gabrielle's frantic exclamation came loudly as she resumed her look-out position. "She's hanging on by the hand-rail an' thrashing about with her legs. OK, OK, she's recovered. She's turned round to come back."

In a moment Gabrielle scrambled to the door where I helped her to re-enter. Then I saw a hand gripping the outer edge of the guards-van, closely followed by Xena herself. Within seconds she too was safely back on solid ground beside the rest of us in the narrow confined space at the coach entrance.

She was dusty, dirty, and be-draggled. There were soot smudges all over her face, hands and, er, legs. She was gasping for breath and there was a fierce sparkle in her blue eyes.

"Loki and Hera! What a—_huarph_—mess. _Augh_—I got soot in my mouth. Life—_wuagh_—life's just one bitchin' thing after another, ain't it?" She shook her head as she gripped Gabrielle's shoulder for an instant. "Didn't think it'd be so difficult. That bridge very nearly did for me."

"We saw." Gabrielle nodded in sympathy. "Gettin' along the side of that van ain't going to be the cakewalk we thought. Even with those wide foot-boards."

"How many other bridges are there on this stretch of line, Mr Holmes?" Xena gave my friend a piercing glance. "Not many, I hope."

"Several." Came Holmes' uncompromising answer. "You can count on one at least for every mile of the present stretch of track, over the next few miles."

The dark-haired warrior (for I think all of us present now thought of these intrepid women as such) shook her long locks and gazed round at the assembled faces.

"What we need—"

"Something's happening on my side, gents; and, er, ladies!" The police-sergeant had been keeping a careful watch out a window and now ducked his head back in to report. "That other train has a passenger coach; a goods wagon with a wide central door; and a guards-van. The goods-wagon's door's open an' they've laid a sorta plank or walking-board across between them an' our guards-van's verandah. Dunno what it means."

There was no room for us all to use the window on that side, it being simply the narrow coach door-window. By common consent Xena leaned out to take a long study of the scene, then turned to us again with a gleam of excitement in her eyes.

"I'll stay here with Gabrielle; you others go to the windows of the next compartments." She was tight-lipped and thoughtful. "I don't like it."

A minute later Rider Haggard was by himself, leaning perilously out the second compartment window; Holmes and I were in a similar position at the first compartment widow; and the two women were in possession of the coach door-window: all eager to take a gander at the unfolding situation.* We had a grandstand view of what was happening—and it was amazing and unbelievable.

On this line—as I believe is the case on all other double-track lines—there was a six-foot space between the rails of one track and the parallel track.* With the width of the coaches taken into consideration the coaches of our train and the other train were only some four feet apart, as we kept pace with each other at forty miles an hour. The wide door of the goods-wagon on the opposite train was open and a sort of thin plank-like walkway had been placed across connecting the two trains, though in a most dangerous manner. Before anyone could take a guess as to the purpose behind this curious action all query was answered for us by the appearance of a tall figure at the end of our guards-van. From this short distance we all instantly recognised Colonel Moran. Without hesitation he stepped onto the hazardous plank; crouched low then, with three determined strides, made it safely to the goods-wagon opposite us. The plank foot-bridge was instantly detached and fell away onto the track behind us, while the door of the opposite wagon closed tightly on our prey. Almost at the same time the other engine picked up speed and the whole train opposite began to pull away ahead of us.

"Give them a broadside as they go by." Rider Haggard took sudden command of the situation, as the barrel of his own formidable elephant gun appeared at the window beside him. "Lieutenant, tell your men to fire at will. Gentlemen, your pistols will come in handy, I believe."

If qualms might have been felt by any of us at thus being asked to fire without fair warning at an adversary this was put to rest by a fusillade of rifle-fire from the opposing coach as it passed. There seemed to be at least six, if not more, weapons in use and shrapnel and splinters, as well as broken glass, tore free from the compartment woodwork all round us as our enemies bullets found their targets.

Our response was instantaneous. All along our train, from every compartment, came a barrage of return fire in which even Holmes and I joined with our pistols. The surface of the opposing coach and goods-wagon seemed to disappear in a mist of dust and splinters as our bullets hit home. From my left-hand side came the sudden boom of Rider Haggard's massive double-barrelled rifle. As he had fore-warned it went off like a cannon and certainly deafened me for the ensuing couple of minutes. But the effect was beyond all belief. He had obviously fired at the door of the goods-wagon, and the result was absolute annihilation. The large wooden door simply exploded as if a bomb had gone off; and left in its place a black hole, edged with jagged remnants of its thick boards. Our soldiers fire also had the effect of stopping all further shooting from Moran's train which, having picked up far more speed than ours, now roared off ahead.

Just as the shattered goods-wagon came past our coach a white arm stretched out from the window of the coach-door to my right, and I saw the blur and heard the strange whistle of Xena's chakram as she made her own contribution to the battle. Within a half-second of its disappearing into the wagon door, or what was left of it, it returned across the intervening space in a silver blur direct to Xena's waiting hand and steely grip. Hot on this we all heard a cry of excitement from Gabrielle, then the train had disappeared into the distance.

Moments later we all congregated in the first compartment to compare notes, where Gabrielle's expression still spoke volumes.

"Xena got him!" The blonde-haired Amazon bared her teeth grimly. "I saw the chakram hit a dark silhouetted figure in the interior of the goods-van. I'm certain it was Moran—I think, anyway. Look, there's blood on Xena's chakram."

There was indeed—evidence of the success of her throw which she nonchalantly began to wipe away with a scrap of cloth. When both Rider Haggard and Holmes looked at her with dubious expressions she merely raised an enquiring eyebrow; but something in her attitude forbade any discussion.

"Er, well, it may serve to hold him up, if it was indeed Moran you hit." Holmes shrugged his shoulders. "That thing, no doubt, would cause a nasty wound."

Xena looked unimpressed, though calm; Gabrielle took it unto herself to clarify matters.

"The chakram hit the shadowy figure in the goods-van on the head—I saw it." She paused bleakly. "It made a mess of his head before it ricocheted back to Xena. Whoever he was—Moran or not—he's dead."

There isn't really anything a fellah can say in such circumstances—any possible reply being merely superfluous. Certainly, neither I nor Holmes nor Rider Haggard could think of anything appropriate. But our perplexity was short-lived for Gabrielle jumped in again with one of her now deadly speculations.

"Y'know, when I saw Moran jump on our guards-van back at Willesden Junction he had a canvas haversack over his shoulder and a rifle-case." She scratched her chin in thought, as her listeners began to turn pale. "When he crossed to that other train just now he only had the rifle-case—the haversack was missing. Still in our guards-van, I suppose. What d'ya think he had in it?"

"My God!" Rider Haggard dropped on the floor the heavy cartridge he was attempting to load into his gun.

"Oh, my God!" I too felt as if I had almost stopped breathing through fear.

"Great God!" Even Holmes himself seemed non-plussed by events.

"Oh, I see, so you think it's the dyna—" Gabrielle looked wide-eyed at the tall woman by her side.

"Listen t' me!" Xena alone remained focussed, interrupting her friend to look around at the rest of us. "We have'ta rescue the guard and the two police officers in the guards-van; whatever condition they're in now. Gabrielle an' I will go down the left-hand side; Dr Watson, you, an' Haggard can take the right-hand side. We get to the verandah, kick the door in; get the men out an' back here; then see what can be done about—whatever it is Moran's left for us. Anybody got any better ideas. Remember, time is passing."

We all glanced at each other, with varying levels of unhappiness apparent in our expressions. But finally it was Rider Haggard who answered.

"It's a plan." He was a man of few words when his mind was made up. "Let's do it!"

—O—

**Notes:—**

1. Verandah. A roofed open gallery or porch. Can be spelled either '_veranda_' or '_verandah_'. I believe Dr Watson would have used the more old-fashioned latter spelling.

2. "There'll be a waist-high door—." This gives a general description of a real LNWR Brake Van (Diagram 16) as widely used in rail traffic around 1894.

3. "Take a gander". British slang for 'take a look'.

4. 'six foot space between the rails'. All British railway companies had a more or less standardised six-foot distance between adjacent running tracks. This was known as '_the six-foot way_'.

—OOO**—**


	24. Brakes, Bombs, & Breakfast

—OOO**—**

**Chapter 24.**

Monday. 8.10am.— 21th May, 1894. The end-game nears its end.

'**Brakes, Bombs, & Breakfast' **

"No! Wait." Holmes' voice rang loud and firm. "I think a little caution is in order, here. Neither Watson, accomplished as his estimable merits are; nor Rider Haggard, even with his experience, is capable of traversing the side of the guards-van. You saw how hard it was even for you, Xena."

Reluctantly the dark-haired woman nodded, after looking piercingly at both myself and Rider Haggard.

"Ya got a point, yeah." She shrugged, and replaced the deadly chakram at her waist. "Suppose that just leaves Gabrielle and I, then."

"No, —" But my friend was interrupted in his answer almost before he had begun.

"You're sayin' '_no'_ a lot, Mr Holmes." She grimaced angrily (_not an expression I'd like directed at me, I have to admit_). "Meanwhile time's passing, and those men in the van still need help—and _we_ may be approaching a fiery end courtesy of Moran's dynamite stuff. What'cha got, then?"

"The '_Emergency Communication Cord_'!" Holmes reply was to the point.

Xena raised an eyebrow, as did Gabrielle by her side.

"It's for an emergency—" Holmes started.

"Oh!" Xena's tone was deeply ironic.

"—where a passenger feels the train or other passengers may be in danger." He finished valiantly, ignoring the slight air of disbelief that had infiltrated the atmosphere, from who knows where. "That's it there, the short chain near the ceiling. When it's pulled it automatically applies the brakes for the whole train, bringing it to a halt."*

"Isn't there a £25 fine for doing that?"

Rider Haggard had the decency to immediately turn a bright red under his tan as every one of us in the confined space at the carriage entrance turned to gaze at him in awe, considering the circumstances.

"So we use it, and bring the train to a halt." Xena rubbed a scratch on her cheek musingly. "That'll let us get to the people in the van—but what then?"

"We place them at the trackside, along with most of the other police and soldiers presently on board, then start the train up again." Holmes seemed to have reached a decision on the next moves, as his tone showed.

"Why do all that? Can't we just uncouple the van, bring the men from it with us, and get the Hades outta here again?" Gabrielle too had been considering possibilities.

"Look around you, I mean at the area we're passing through." Holmes waved a hand to both carriage-door windows. "There's streets of houses on either hand for some considerable distance to come. If we leave the van and dynamite—if that, in fact, is what it turns out to be—on the track it'll certainly destroy several streets when it goes off."

Both women gazed out the windows on either hand. The view on both sides was similar, rows of red-brick two-story houses with slate roofs and heavy chimney stacks. We were presently passing by what appeared to be a workers district, with row upon row of exactly identical sets of buildings. Street after street of low-class houses mainly for those who worked in various factories in the vicinity. It was by any standards a depressing picture. But Holmes's point was well-made. There were thousands of families in close proximity to the railway line at this juncture who would be the unwitting victims if Moran's dynamite went off anywhere hereabouts.

"_Can_ the driver start the train again, afterwards?" Xena was now gazing intently at Holmes.

"Yes, he merely needs to re-set the brake valves." Holmes nodded. "In the meantime, while the soldiers and police dis-embark, we can take a close look at the dynamite to see how best to handle it."

"I don't _want_ to handle it!" Gabrielle's remark was decisive, and delivered with venom.

"Examine it, I mean." Holmes ploughed on regardless. "We are, I believe, rapidly approaching the Watford Tunnel district. That's where I want the climax of this affair to take place, so we had better act quickly, now."

"Watford Tunnel? Explain." Xena was obviously determined to be appraised of all the details.

"It goes under Wa—no, no, don't interrupt again—it is over a mile long, and approached via a long deep cutting.* That's a man-made ravine—and a mile is about a third of a parasang." Holmes paused, having allowed a touch of asperity to enter his speech. "Do you still use parasangs in Greece? I thought they were antiquated—Classical?"

"They still use them where _we_ come from." Gabrielle elected to answer on her friend's behalf, but Holmes had lost interest and was off on another tack.

"The cutting is deep enough, you see, to contain the majority of the resulting explosion if the dynamite goes off." Holmes came as close to a smile as he ever could. "Not, of course, that I expect us to be in the vicinity to see it. I mean to abandon the van on the track in the cutting some way before the tunnel entrance, then head safely into the tunnel to avoid the explosion, and eventually catch up with the Royal Train again. Explanations to the local constabulary can be left to Inspector Lestrade—give him something to fill his time."

Gabrielle, though keeping an expression of cautious distrust, raised her arm and gripped the short length of steel chain close to the ceiling with tight fingers. She looked round at everyone before also grabbing the door handle as an extra hold.

"Well, this should be fun." She glanced uncertainly at Holmes, as Xena went across to stand by her side. "Mr Holmes, how quickly does this work? Does the driver take long to respond to whatever signal this gives?"

"The driver, madam, has nothing to do with the process." Holmes himself wedged his body into a corner of the small open area. "I would advise everyone to hang on to something. The chain goes direct to the brake levers and valves. When one is dis-connected the whole series, including the engine brakes, take full effect. The wheels will probably lock and the whole train slide along the rails for a considerable distance. There will be some—er,—unsteadiness."

With this warning ringing in our ears Gabrielle glanced at Xena, then wasting no more time, pulled down firmly on the chain. With frightening suddenness there was a juddering of the entire carriage and the most terrifying squealing of tortured metal I had ever heard. After some initial jolting backwards and forwards as each set of brakes, on the individual carriages and eventually the engine itself, took effect the train suddenly lost the usual feeling of running on the track and quite clearly began to skim along the rails as the wheels locked. There was some uncomfortable buffeting as the coaches went over the links where fishplates held each sixty-foot section of track in place, then we all felt the diminution in speed as the train finally lost impetus and began to come to a slow screeching halt.*

Gabrielle was first out, literally jumping the five feet or so to the ground with effortless ease; Xena at her heels. Rider Haggard followed more formally taking the steps and leaping the last couple of feet. I came next with Holmes right behind. The first thing that gained our attention was a man in filthy trousers of indeterminable make, a greasy short jacket and scruffy peaked leather cap standing by the engine some distance down the line. Even at a range of some 100 feet or so his language could be heard to be distinctly unambiguous.*

"Who pulled the dammed cord?" He wiped his dirty hands on an equally dirty cloth as he ambled along the sleepers towards us. "There's a bl . . ding Law agin that, yer know. What's the bl . . . y trouble. Thought we were dead set fer bl . . ding Manchester non-stop."

Xena had straightened, with a curious expression on her set features, and taken a step towards the unsuspecting driver when a shout from the rear of the train took our attention.

"Help! Come quick. There's a bomb here. I think it's the Fenians."*

The speaker was a tallish man dressed in a long uniform coat and peaked cap, though one far neater than the driver's example. He stood by the end of the guards-van clutching his right arm close to his body. Xena turned and ran down the track towards him, with the rest of us following as best we could over the sleepers.

—O—

The guard was quickly identified as a Mr George Renwick, whose name appeared on the official passenger-crew list which Holmes had folded in a pocket of his capacious overcoat. Renwick had suffered a bullet wound to his upper right arm which I quickly looked at. There was a lot of blood and a nasty ragged exit wound, but the bone had survived intact. I used the remnants of his shirt sleeve to bind it temporarily. He had some interesting remarks to make on the subject as I worked. Much of his voluble speech being due, in my medical opinion, to shock.

"He appeared from nowhere just as we left Willesden." Renwick groaned with pain as I worked, but continued. "He weren't but inside the van when I knew he weren't a real guard. I could tell by the way he paused to look about him. '_Here, what's the meaning of this?_' I said, being angry an' put out. '_I'll need to stop the train and have you taken in custody. You can't —_', and that's as far as I got. Suddenly there were a pistol in his hand, and without so much as a '_by your leave_' he commenced to shoot me!"

"Damned uncivil of him. Not a gentleman!" Rider Haggard sniffed indignantly. "Just a mad unhinged guttersnipe."

"He were all of unhinged, sir." Renwick nodded in agreement. "He fired again to my left hand side, and when I glanced round one of the cop—, er, police-officers were on the floor with a wound in his side. He'd drawn his truncheon and tried to jump at the man. The gunman, he were a tall gent—much taller than me—had the other policeman covered with his revolver by then, so that was that."

By this time I had finished my field-care of the man and Xena now moved past us to the steps leading to the short verandah of the guards-van.

"You stay here with your patient, Dr Watson." She glanced at Gabrielle, who was by her side. "We'll take a look at what's inside. You said there was a bomb, Renwick?"

"Don't go in there, ma'am." Renwick made as if to raise an arm in caution but groaned with pain. "A damn sight too dangerous for ladies, begging your pardon."

"What did Moran—the tall man—do?" Holmes took charge of this aspect of the interrogation. "We believe he had some material of, er, an explosive nature —"

"It's dynamite, sir." Renwick didn't pause to think about it. "I worked in a slate quarry in Wales for five years, sir. He had a bag with about twenty sticks—enough to blow most of Watford off the map entirely, an' that's no exaggeration, take my word for it."

At this juncture we were all standing by the end of the van. Holmes had taken Renwick's arm gently and assisted him to the grassy verge of the track, where he helped him sit down. Rider Haggard stood by with his great double-barrelled rifle resting comfortably on his right shoulder, pointing up to the sky.

"I'll come inside with you, ladies." I nodded at the women as we stood by the short set of steps. "I'll need to see to the wounded police officer as soon as possible. Shall we go? That bomb, I believe, isn't going to wait for us."

"I'll be with you directly, Watson." Holmes was finishing making Renwick as comfortable as possible, in the circumstances. "The sooner I get a glimpse of that dynamite, the better."

—O—

Xena was first inside the open door of the van. Before entering she called out in a calm voice to those inside that friends were there to help them, then she stepped through the door with no unnecessary fuss. Gabrielle went next and I followed.

It took a few seconds for my eyes to adapt to the general shadowy light in the single room of the wooden-sided vehicle. The first thing I noticed was a table towards the end of the cabin, with a wooden bench set against the left-hand wall. In the open floor-space just inside the entrance a policeman crouched over a dark immobile shape. He looked up at me with pale face.

"Are you a Doctor, sir? Jim's pretty badly hurt, I think. That ba . . . . d shot him in the gut."

I gently coaxed the man to one side, where he more or less collapsed onto the bench, then I occupied myself with my patient. Immediately I determined the wound was not as serious as might have been expected. The man had not taken the bullet in the gut, as his friend believed, but in the lower ribs on his right side. There was a very messy wound about the size of a hand-palm, with a piece of broken bone visible. But my experience of these things from my days in Afghanistan showed me the bullet had been of relatively small calibre and had bounced off the ribs to exit more or less the way it had entered. As I finished my examination Holmes entered the van and stood by my side.

"I believe Moran is using a .32 revolver, Holmes, probably a Webley short-barrel Bulldog mark—easy to conceal in a coat-pocket." I moved slightly to give my friend a clearer view of the man's injuries. "That would be consistent with both the guard's wound, and this man's."*

Holmes had been about to lean down to examine the prostrate man but on hearing my words straightened with, I thought, a slightly miffed expression and instead silently went over to a dark corner of the interior where something else seemed to have caught his attention.

"Could you help here, Gabrielle?" I waved her to a place by the prone victim's side. "He's unconscious more from shock than any loss of blood. If you can hold the edge of the wound so, and apply this pad—it's a couple of my clean handkerchiefs—it'll stop the bleeding."

Gabrielle immediately grasped what was needed and knelt beside her patient with a remarkably tender manner. The others were grouped together in a corner of the van and I walked over to join them, meaning to give a report on what I felt was the condition of the policeman, but Holmes turned to me with a worried frown.

"Things are not getting any better, Watson." He indicated something on the floor by the wall of the van.

I looked down at what appeared to be a wooden tool box of some four feet in length, maybe eighteen inches width, and about two feet in height. The flat wooden lid was open and, on peering in, I instantly saw what the difficulty was.

"Pretty much all of those twenty sticks Renwick talked of." Xena glanced up with a grim expression. "It's hard to tell if they're all there, they're so tightly packed and held in place by those metal rods. He's locked that chain round them with a padlock. A very permanent sorta job."

"Can't we break them loose, and throw them overboard?" I realised as I spoke the futile nature of what I said.

"The rods are screwed onto the planks of the base with flanges." Xena pointed out the details as we bent over the devilish device. "The chains around the rods and the bundles of dynamite are tight. It'd take ages to force them free. And do you see that flat metal box at the side with the wires leading to the top bundle of sticks? If you lean forward you can hear it ticking. Holmes tells me it's a clock—a timing device, which as you see has a thick bronze casing."

I raised my eyes from the dim interior of the box to gaze at those around me. It was quite clear the bomb—for it was indeed that—had been made with extreme cunning. It had been placed carefully and was not going anywhere quickly.

"How long do you think we have?" I was worried we might not even have time to get the two wounded men to safety.

"I believe Moran meant the device to go off in the Watford Tunnel. Which may give us a few—a very few—minutes yet." Holmes looked at each of us in turn. "As we made our way back here I gave the Lieutenant and police sergeant orders to evacuate the train. If you can move your patient to the trackside, I think the sooner we get this train on the move again, the better."

—O—

All necessary preparations having been completed in a remarkably short time we were all back on board the train in the space of only three minutes or so. The trackside was now lined by a veritable crowd of soldiers and policemen. I had no idea there were, in fact, so many accompanying us. Beside them were the two wounded men; Renwick most insistent that, though wounded, he should not leave his train. But Holmes had overcome his worries with a few kind words, and the soldiers own medical man was now looking after him and the wounded policeman.

The engine driver, now subdued and perfectly aware of the nature of the present emergency, had run back to his cab where he had appraised his fireman of the necessity of getting up as much steam as soon as possible, and keeping it up. Holmes, for the moment taking the guard's place, waved his arm out of the carriage window of the first coach to which we had all returned and the train once more heaved itself into motion and clanked and juddered along the track.

We picked up a fair rate of speed remarkably quickly; but then the driver was being as careful of his health as were we all now. Holmes had taken the time to explain matters to the driver, who turned out to be quite intelligent and a master of his craft. He had promised to halt the train in the deep cutting some considerable way before the entrance to the Watford Tunnel itself, where the next step of our dangerous mission was to take effect.

"So, lem'me see, we set the guard's-van adrift when we reach this cutting thing, take shelter in the tunnel till the bomb blows; then head off to catch up with the Royal Train, eh?" Gabrielle ticked each point off on her fingers as we sat in the first compartment.

"That seems to be the logical sequence of events." Holmes was frowning deeply as he thought carefully on the possible problems that might appear. "We have to expect that Moran—thinking he has done away with us—is going to take his train to catch the Queen himself. We must reach her first, but he has a large lead—which will only increase, as we still need to stop to deal with this bomb."

"I've been thinking." Xena looked at Holmes with a keen light in her blue eyes. "We need'ta save as much time as possible, if only for our own safety. I mean, who really knows how quickly that damned bomb may detonate? If we uncouple the van while we are still in motion ourselves, what'd happen?"

Rider Haggard, Holmes, and I looked at each other for some seconds, pondering this idea; then Holmes replied.

"You mean you would uncouple it from the last coach?" He ran a long finger over his jaw, considering the point. "Normally I would never give such an idea the time of day—but these are not normal times. The track leading through the cutting, and the Watford Tunnel itself, is on a level plane. I've told the driver not to exceed twenty miles an hour till we reach the cutting. But on arrival he has orders to stop, and we can't communicate with him to change plans."

"Yes we can." Gabrielle nodded, where she sat on the opposite bench-seat by Xena's side. "It's easy. I can go through the empty goods-van behind the tender; open the door there and clamber over the flat top of the tender and its coal, and reach the driver that way. I can tell him to keep up the same speed and carry on into the tunnel. Xena, meanwhile can do her thing with the guards-van. How's that?"

"Works for me."

Xena spoke without hesitation and I, for the first time, really understood the deep affection and trust that bound these two amazing individuals together. There was clearly nothing Holmes, I, nor Rider Haggard could do but agree.

"Well, time presses." Holmes accepted the necessities of Fate stoically. "Let's get everything organised, then. We need to decide exactly when Xena should release the van. It'll continue rolling along the track for a considerable distance after having been—dropped— I believe the technical term is."

"Yeah." Xena grunted without enthusiasm as she exchanged a glance with Gabrielle. "Don't want the damned thing chasing us along the track, a few feet behind, till it blows."

"Nah, that wouldn't be any fun at all." Gabrielle sneered, rather genteelly, in her turn. "Pity Moran ain't still in the van, chained to that box, so he could go up with it. I could kinda maybe live with that!"

"Gabrielle!"

"Sorry, Xena." The blonde woman had the grace to look suitably chastened. "Well, I ain't had any breakfast yet—an' you know how ornery I get without breakfast!"

—O**—**

**Notes:—**

1. 'Emergency Communication Cord'. In Britain the '_Regulation of Railways Act, 1889_' made it mandatory for passenger trains to have automatic brakes. The Emergency Cord, or chain, activated the brakes while over-riding the driver's control.

2. Watford Tunnel is over a mile long, with a long preliminary approach through a deep cutting. It is still in use today.

3. 'Sixty-foot section of track'. Rail lengths in British jointed track were usually 66ft (20m) long, connected together by 2ft long metal bars with screwholes called fishplates.

4. Even on exclusive passenger trains the drivers and firemen, because of the nature of their work, were generally less than pristine in their clothing.

5. Fenians. These were members of the '_Irish Republican Group_' dating from 1858. They were dedicated to the establishment of an independent Irish Republic. In 1867 they blew up the outer wall of Clerkenwell Prison in London, in an attempt to release a high-ranking member. Several nearby houses were demolished in the huge explosion, with 12 people killed and 90 injured. Between 1881 & 1885 they kept up the bombing campaign, with explosions in the House of Commons chamber and the Tower of London.

6. Webley British Bull Dog. This revolver featured a short 2½ inch barrel and was chambered for a variety of cartridges from .45 down to .32. It was first produced in 1872.

—OOO**—**


	25. An Occurrence at Watford Tunnel (1 of 2)

—OOO**—**

**Chapter 25.**

Monday. 8.45am.— 21th May, 1894. The end-game reaches the brink of final success.

—O**—**

'**An Occurrence at Watford Tunnel' (1 of 2)**

Xena insisted on accompanying Gabrielle forward to the goods-van coupled behind the tender, where its function acted as a vibration-damper for the other passenger coaches. The corridor-door had fortunately been connected and left unlocked, so we three simply walked through into the empty interior of the van where there were only a few bundles and piles of gear associated with the police officers and soldiers who had previously been with us. Rider Haggard and Holmes had elected to remain behind at the rear coach's connection to the guard's-van, awaiting Xena's return.

It is here that I must begin to report activities which, though verified by my own, Rider Haggard's, and Holmes's witnessing, still cannot but be viewed with astonishment—perhaps even disbelief—by any reasonable reader. I can only say that certain of the following facts, though unexplained, did indeed happen.

We all three had hardly entered the empty van and proceeded to the front end, where large sliding-doors were placed on either side, when there occurred what I can only describe as a wavering bright-reddish light which quickly subsided and vanished again. For a moment I thought that some small amount of Moran's dynamite might have exploded somewhere close by, but such was not the case.

The source of the disturbance had been immediately behind us, and we turned as one. The ladies then merely raised their eyebrows, almost unconcernedly; while I was entirely dumbstruck. Standing inside the goods-van, between us and the door we had just entered by, stood a tall powerfully-built man. He had thick black hair, a close-cropped beard and moustache, angular features, and a lithe athletic stance. His eyes and expression suggested someone used to giving orders and being in command. The clothes he wore appeared to be a loose leather jerkin and dark leather trousers with heavy boots. His waist-belt had a remarkably large silver buckle. He was also clearly foreign, and it did not take Holmes's intuition for me to propose Greece as his native land. Xena and Gabrielle both appeared to be on familiar terms with him. And I suddenly realised he must be the fellow who had made such a brief, but effective, appearance at Belsize Park, as well as in '_The Prospect of Whitby_'. What _was_ his name, again? Anyway, the other staggering revelation was that beside this foreign gentleman stood none other than Markham, looking slightly dazed.

"Ares! Should'a known you'd finally turn up to spoil things." Xena clearly wasn't impressed by him. "At least ya had the sense to bring Markham. Why's he here, by the way?"

"Necessity. Gods, you're looking swish and dapper—as I believe they say here!" Ares smirked, showing a fine set of white teeth. "You realise, of course, that things are goin' from bad to worse in this game, Xena? Everything is goin' to happen in the next half-hour. You know how short a half-hour is?"

"Long enough for me ta kick your butt." Gabrielle frowned from under lowered brows as she mumbled this defamatory remark, while she stood with one hand casually resting on Xena's arm.

"What? What d'ya say?" The tall man appeared a little irritated, and frowned at the blonde woman in his turn.

"What? Oh, just that we've really been wishing you'd show up to help—that's all!" Gabrielle spoke with a bright light snapping in her green eyes. No love lost there, I fancy.

She could obviously also prevaricate with the best. No, let us tell the truth—she could lie like a trooper, and with the most innocent expression imaginable.

Ares glowered for a moment, then accepted defeat and turned to more important matters.

"OK, it's like this, we gotta shut down this creep's game, and fast." Ares looked at Xena and shrugged his shoulders apologetically. "Sorry I couldn't have been more help up till now, but ya know these God Things—all sorts of moral rules an' regulations that even I can't circumnavigate."

"Wow! D'you know what that word means?" Gabrielle seemed to harbour some form of long term grudge against the man.

"Listen Duchess, this ain't the time for scoring points, OK?" The man scowled with anger. "Gods, I hate Amazons! They _so_ never do what I want."

"Excuse me, what's a creep?" I felt some little explanation was needed for his sudden coup against the leadership of our group."And who are you? And how on earth did you bring Markham here. As far as I know he should be with Inspector Lestrade on the Queen's train."

This aspect of the affair had intrigued me over the last minute or two; and I had expended a great deal of mental energy applying Holmes's methods on the question—to no avail.

"Yers, what _am_ I doin' here?" The man so alluded to stared around with returning intelligence. "One moment I'm standing in a corner of the Royal Saloon, watchin' the Queen sittin' on her sofa havin' a cup of tea while Lestrade's givin' me the low-down on '_etikette'_—the next thing there's a bloody great red light an' I'm here? How'd yer do that, mister?"

"With remarkable ease, you common oaf!" Ares had certainly never learned manners at a respectable Public School. "And a creep is what that maniac Colonel Moran is, Doctor Watson. Any more questions? Or do you want to hold a symposium on the whole affair—till that dynamite blows up at the rear of this—this mobile caravanserai, and sends you all to Tartarus in little pieces?"

"Hey, watch it with the catty remarks!" Gabrielle scowled as she took a step towards her opponent. "Markham's been a better friend to us than you've been so far. What brings you here right now, anyway? What's goin' on?"

The dark man raised both his arms in the air, as if looking to the Heavens for help. He had, I realised for the first time, a sheathed dagger at his waist-belt and a long sword hanging from a secondary belt. He looked for all the world like an actor in an amateur production of a Gilbert and Sullivan comic-operetta. Things, I felt, were getting just a trifle out of control.*

"If everyone would only stop _asking_ me what I'm doin' here, I'd _tell_ everyone what I'm doin' here—capiche?" He looked around at us with a pitying glance. "OK, t'get right down t'the meaty bones of the situation—at the present moment Moran's train has broken down on one of the two lines of track in that long cutting-ravine thing, which leads to that tunnel everyone keeps talking about."

"Great Athena!" Xena snarled, almost with glee.

"Great Hippolyta!" Gabrielle was just as amazed by this turn of events.

"Great God!" I felt somewhat on the periphery of things, but the dangers presented by this news were clear enough, even to me.

"Great Eris and Enyo,—will you all _Shut Up_!"* He bared his teeth in a snarl that rivalled any Xena could equal. "No, no, don't thank me, it was a little thing!"

Xena sneered openly at this point, as if casting doubt on his involvement in this turn of events—an opinion I heartily agreed with, though I kept this to myself.

"So I figure if you dump the guard's-van early, it'll run on behind you for some considerable time." Here the man grinned in the most frightful manner. "The way I see it is, you draw his fire as you pass by; he's distracted by both his accident and the unexpected chance to finally pop your clogs, Xena; then after an exchange of fire ya all beat a retreat into the tunnel, while the van rolls up an' explodes right beside that Gods-damned maniac. That should settle his hash, eh?"*

There was a long pause while we all contemplated this scenario. Actually, after the briefest thought, it was apparent that it actually held a great deal of merit.

"Gods, I can't believe I'm goin' t'say this." Xena looked at the roof of the goods-van as if for inspiration. "OK, OK, it's a good idea. It only means a little changing of our original plan. What d'ya think, Gabrielle?"

"I get it." The blonde Amazon nodded, understandingly. "I go over the tender to the engine-driver as we previously decided, but instead of telling him to drive into the tunnel I order him to slow down or even stop for a short time when we reach Moran's train. Then start up again, maybe at some signal from you, Xena, an' head Hades-for-leather into the tunnel. Right?"

"Ya got it. OK, let's do this." The tall dark woman clapped her friend on the shoulder.

Xena then strode over to the left-hand door, unclasped the lock by the simple expedient of hitting it viciously with the edge of her chakram, and slid the door open. A blast of dust and cold air rushed in, but I was an old hand now at this and held a handkerchief to my face. The others seemed unfazed by any discomfort. Gabrielle, with Xena's help, glanced out; looked up and down the sides of the van; then delicately stepped out onto the relatively wide foot-board. There were no metal hand-rails on the side of the goods-van, but there were several hooks, ringlets, and bolts fixed on the exterior at various places. These allowed her to make her way along the rocking side of the van, which was almost long enough to be called a coach. Then she reached the forward end and slipped round out of view. Her next task would be to climb up the back of the tender and make her way over the coal to the rear of the driver's cab. But that was out of our hands now. We, and particularly Xena, had our own difficulties to contend with.

"OK. She's on her own. Let's go." Xena turned away from the open door to stride back to the corridor-entrance. "Coming, Ares?"

"Gods, women!" The dark man growled sourly, as he followed the lady in question. "They're always nothing but trouble. What'd I have'ta do t'light Xena's fire? Y'know, Dr Watson, I often wonder about turning over a new leaf—usually after a face-off with Xena, I gotta admit. Being kind, an' mild-mannered, an' respectful to my elders, an' all that cr-p! D'ya think that'd be the answer?"

There was a long thoughtful silence as we walked back through into the passenger-coach.

"Nah!"

—O—

"Mr Holmes, meet Ares." Xena performed the introductions as we arrived back at the rear of the last coach.

"This is _impossible_. There can be no logical or rational explanation for this!" Holmes was instead looking fixedly at Markham, as if seeing a ghost. "How did Markham join us? There is no way it can have been possible."

"Let's not beat our brains against minor problems. We got bigger fish t'fry." Ares grunted impolitely as he surveyed the set-up. "So, ya open the door here; Xena leans out an' releases the van; then we wait for the Last Act, eh? Nice. There's plenty of dynamite in that van, ain't there?"

He asked the last question of Xena, and she gave a truly terrifying sneer in answer.

"Enough t'wipe out Olympus itself, my war-fixated friend!" She certainly seemed to be nurturing something like a lasting resentment. "Wish I had some to take back with me. Got a good idea what I'd do with it."

The way she looked at the tall man after these words didn't exactly fill me with happiness. I am not a practitioner of the new psycho-analytic methods so much the rage in Vienna at the moment; but even I could see that some deep underlying sexual connection existed between these two—the tall dark man, and the tall dark woman. No doubt Gabrielle often felt like a rubber ball squeezed between them, accounting for _her_ own disapproval of Ares. Altogether a remarkable medical case-study—but I digress.

"Hades, that's one mighty weapon, Haggard." Ares' voice, as he somewhat hurriedly changed the subject, was loaded with envy as he eyed the massive double-barrelled gun leaning against the side-wall in the small open space beside the rear door. "Y'any good with it?"

"I can guarantee to give a fly a nasty fright at thirty paces!" Rider Haggard obviously thought humour was the answer to this peculiar addition to our ranks. "Don't think we've been properly introduced. Didn't catch your name, I'm afraid."

"Ares, Go—er, a friend of Xena's here." The tall Greek man gave a side-long glance at his supposed companion. "We meet now and again. She's responsible for my being here now, y'know."

At this remark Ares found himself once more the centre of attention for the other two men present.

"And just how that occurred is a matter of some interest to me, if I may say so." Holmes was determined to get to the bottom of the mystery, come what may.

"Yeah, I mean, how am _I_ back here?" Markham too felt explanations were called for. "I was on the Royal Train; now I ain't. There's something not right somewhere. An' what's Miss Gabrielle up to. Climbing all over the engine like she is. That's dangerous, y'know!"

Xena stepped in here to soothe ruffled feathers and, I fancy, ego's. It was, apparently, an occupation she had much experience with.

"Gabrielle's alright, Markham." She actually smiled kindly as she looked at the stocky man. "She knows what she's doin'. She can handle it. Now you, on the other hand, Ares. You're just cramping my style. Get outta my way, I need'ta lean out through the doorway here. You can make yourself useful by hanging onto my belt—I don't wanna go flying when the van breaks free."

Holmes pulled down the long window in the coach-door and stuck his head out into the passing airflow. He was looking in the direction we were travelling, trying to gauge the right time to release the van for our purposes.

"We're still a couple of miles from the Watford cutting, Watson, which is good." He spoke with the familiar nervous tension in his voice which always showed his immersion in the unfolding events of any adventure we were on. "I've studied the LNWR route map, so by my calculations we should be coming up on the best drop-point soon."

"Ya sure ya know when to release this van, Mr Holmes?" Xena called back from her precarious position, kneeling at the open rear door.

"I've taken note of the weight of the van, madam, and the very slight degree of incline in the track at this point." Holmes voice was wholly calm and absorbed in the details of the situation. "I know our position here, and the distance to the cutting. When the van is released it will, of course, immediately begin to lose speed; but will continue moving for a remarkably long distance over the rails. The calculation, however, is a simple one and I am confident the van will catch up with us again halfway along the cutting somewhere close to where Moran's train must be. Get ready to act when I give the word."

The next thirty seconds were the longest I have ever endured. But finally, suddenly, Holmes grasped the edge of the window with one gloved hand and cried loudly.

"Now! Let it go, now!"

There came the sound of metal clanking as Xena battled with the heavy coupling. I could see her lower body and, er, legs thrashing around as she heaved against the tightly joined metal links. Then I saw a hand reach back to her waist and grip the chakram resting there. Immediately I could imagine the next sequence of events, and I was not disappointed. There was a loud screeching, as of sheering steel, then Xena's legs gave a compulsive kick and she vanished through the open door. Ares, who had been leaning low over her outstretched body with one hand firmly gripping her belt, seemed to be jerked forward through the open aperture as by an invisible force. For one agonising instant Holmes and I caught a glimpse of his bare arm gripping the edge of the door, then it too vanished—they had both been dragged out onto the track immediately in front of the now released, though still moving, guard's-van! But before either of us could react there came a brilliant flash of red light; the man's arm re-appeared hanging onto the door-handle; there was a brief struggle and the rest of his leather-clad body followed, closely accompanied by Xena herself being dragged inboard like a dusty sack of coals—but alive!

"Hey, thanks, Ares." Xena stood up and dusted herself down nonchalantly.

"No problem, you might try bein' more careful next time!" Ares brushed a hand through his hair with a grimace. "You could'a been mincemeat under that truck, if _I_ hadn't saved ya!"

As we all turned to look out through the open door we saw the guard's-van receding into the distance as we pulled ahead. It was remarkable, in fact, how quickly the van seemed to grow smaller till it was only a dark dot in the distance.

"Are ya sure that thing's goin' t'catch up with us again, Mr Holmes?" Xena stood, with one hand gently caressing the chakram at her waist, looking back along the line.

"Undoubtedly, madam, undoubtedly." Holmes, however, had his mind on another matter. "Tell me, how —"

"Well, we'd better get forward once more." She took no notice of his attempted questioning and instead made a purposeful movement in the direction of the corridor leading back along the carriage's length. "Sooner Gabrielle's safe again, the sooner I'll be happy."

In a second she had vanished, Markham and Ares close on her heels. Rider Haggard stood silently absorbed with his gun while Holmes moodily scratched his chin. Finally he could hold back no longer and gazed at me with a troubled brow.

"Did you see that, Watson?" His face was pale as he contemplated the late scene. "Something happened there that, by all the known laws of science, should not have happened. They both went out that door onto the track like rag-dolls—then they both re-appeared, as if in some magic trick performed by Maskelyne! I see no logical explanation."*

"You've never been in Africa, Holmes, have you?" Rider Haggard regarded the great detective with a solemn demeanour. "I know my published tales are only stories. Full of strange people like '_She_' and '_King Solomon's Mines_'. But they are based on legends, tales, yarns I heard from travellers who have seen such in the un-discovered realms which still exist in that great Dark Continent. I know enough to know there are still un-explained mysteries in the world, even here in dirty, bland old London. Leave it, Holmes, leave it alone. That's my advice."

—O—

**Notes:—**

1. W. S. Gilbert (1836-1911). Arthur Sullivan (1842-1900). Their most famous comic-opera is '_The Mikado_' (1885).

2. Eris (Discord). Goddess of chaos, strife and discord. Enyo, Goddess of War, associated with Ares.

3. Pop your clogs. British slang expression meaning 'to die'.

4. John Nevil Maskelyne (1839-1917). From 1865 onwards he was one of the most famous Victorian conjurers and illusionists.

The next chapter—_'An Occurrence at Watford Tunnel' (2 of 2)_—will be the concluding chapter of this story.

—OOO—


	26. An Occurrence at Watford Tunnel (2 of 2)

—OOO**—**

**Chapter 26.**

Monday. 9.00am.— 21th May, 1894. The end-game concludes.

—O**—**

'**An Occurrence at Watford Tunnel' (2 of 2)**

On re-joining Xena, Ares, and Markham in the goods-van we found that Gabrielle had also returned. I noticed she was dusty; covered in soot; and had several scratches on the exposed portions of her legs.

"Are you alright?" My professional instincts took control without any impulse on my part. "I have some ointment that'll help those cuts, though it may sting a little on application. I take it your expedition was successful?"

"Damn straight, Doctor!" She was full of verve and enthusiasm. Her adventure seemed to have given her a new lease of vitality. "Though that coal tender was one messy problem. Once I had'ta stand up for a moment, and it was a good job I was lookin' ahead. A bridge with a rounded arch was almost on top of me. Gods, I nearly died of fright! If I hadn't a ducked fast there'd only be half of me left right now!"

Xena gave the young blonde woman a worried look, but Gabrielle was nodding her head again.

"I told the driver and his mate what we wanted." She glanced happily at Holmes and I. "He'll bring the train to a halt beside Moran's train. I've got the guard's green flag with me, over there in the corner. So, when someone gives our driver the signal he'll start off again for the tunnel mouth like—like a steer that's been hit with a hot iron!"

—O—

We had hardly been putting ourselves in order for more than a couple of minutes when Xena announced the approaching climax.

"The cutting's coming up. I see it ahead, now." She glanced at Gabrielle, then the rest of us. "Is everyone ready?"

"I have my Holland & Holland elephant gun, with a boxful of cartridges." Rider Haggard took the lead in listing our equipment. "You Watson, and Holmes, each have revolvers. Markham has a heavy .44 revolver, and Xena has her chakram—a very vicious weapon. Gabrielle too has, er, knives readily available. I think we're a match for Moran."

"Especially with our secret weapon!" Gabrielle giggled lightly as she turned to Xena, apparently without a care in the world. "Y'know, wouldn't it be strange if Moran's stopped by the very weapon he was goin' t'use against us? Mown down by his own scythe, y'might say. Think I read a poem in a scro—book a few days ago with that theme."*

At this moment the passing terrain changed suddenly. Outside the open doors of the goods-van the sprawling lines of dingy houses, stone walls, and glimpses of gas lamps, were replaced by steeply-angled grass banks on both sides of the track so high we could not see their tops from our position down on the rails.

"Here's Moran's train coming up." Gabrielle had been grasping the edge of the right-hand doorway, and leaning out. "I can see some men on the track. Figure they're trying to fix their engine."

"OK, this is it." Xena took charge, like a true General. "Gabrielle, nobble whoever you can with your sais. The rest of you, fire at anything that moves—an' I don't mean just to tickle them. We gotta stop 'em dead, particularly Moran."

"Yeah, but don't forget t'keep an eye on the track behind us." Gabrielle smiled tensely at everyone. "That guard's-van'll come up on us as silently and quickly as a Harpy in a forest. Anyone who see's it coming, grab that green flag and wave it at our driver for all you're worth."

—O—

Our engine driver steamed past the criminals train with regal insouciance, considering we could hear him being shot at, bringing our goods-van expertly to a halt almost exactly opposite the damaged wagon of Moran's train. Immediately the noise of their bullets hitting the thick sides of our van was ear-splitting. In the shattered doorway of the van opposite, only six feet away, a number of shadowy figures could be glimpsed milling around in the darkness inside; while the air was thick with white gunsmoke.

Xena threw her chakram, accompanied by a savage yell, while Gabrielle crouched at the door to stab an intruder trying to fire his pistol at us. A flash of scintillating light heralded the speeding chakram's return to its owner, while Markham let fly with his Smith & Wesson. There were several gunshots from the other van, perhaps from Moran, but thankfully no casualties.

Xena and Gabrielle jumped out onto the track, where they engaged the enemy face-to-face like expert, and ruthless, fighters. Gabrielle stabbed with her sai at the side of a large man who had aimed a pistol at Xena, then twisted round to tackle her next victim. Xena again hurled her chakram in a magnificent arc which took out an armed man close by. It then zoomed away to slice the neck of another reprobate; carried on to cut through the heavy jacket of a third man standing by the track with a rifle in his hand, leaving him screaming with a bleeding wound in his side; then arched and glanced off the side of Moran's wagon before arcing back to bounce off a man's head who was menacing Gabrielle with his pistol; after which it returned to Xena's firm grip. An amazing exhibition.

At this point I was deafened for the second time in my life by the discharge of Rider Haggard's elephant gun. Really, that man should have more regard for people's well-being. The noise was indescribable. He used solid bullets, but even so the amount of damage they caused was almost beyond reason. His main target, a man standing on the track some way behind Xena, staggered and collapsed without a cry. The bullet responsible then carried on to hit a second man, bowling him over onto the loose gravel where he lay a shapeless heap; never to move again. The second bullet from Rider Haggard's gun also sped in a true line, he having fired the twin barrels separately like a grouse-shooter following the flight of his birds, to take out two men standing close together to the right.

Holmes and I shot at whatever targets came within our line of sight. Markham also kept up a rapid controlled fire, as he crouched to one side of the doorway. Ares had held back up to this point, but now leapt to the ground with a yell and proceeded to go through the criminals on the track between the trains like a dose of salts through a hospital clinic. He had a short way with dissenters which would have warmed Defoe's own heart.* His sword, which I had merely thought to be a theatrical prop, now showed itself a real and deadly weapon. In one brief horrified glimpse I am not sure but that I saw a bodiless arm flying through the air like a piece of wood someone had thrown. Perhaps I have given enough of these gruesome details. Enough anyway for the reader to be aware this fight was not a play being acted out, but a real conflict where the winner sought remorselessly for triumph at all costs.

"Hey!" Gabrielle's shrill cry cut through the noise of battle like a silver trumpet. "The van's coming!"

Under the continued noise of gunfire Gabrielle and Xena jumped back into the van, with Ares close behind.

"That was one hard fight!" Xena gasped for breath, then looked around her. "Damn those bullets, won't they ever give up. Holmes! To the right. Get him!"

Holmes swivelled and fired twice in the required direction, apparently hitting whatever target was there.

"Bravo!" Xena yelled almost ecstatically. "You alright, Gabby? Hades! The flag. Someone get it. We gotta get outta here, right now!"

I darted across to grab the furled flag and, while the others kept up a covering fire, leaned out and waved the thing frantically with a passion born of real fear. In seconds we felt the jerk and vibration as our train started forward and slowly began to gain speed.

Just as we began to move off Ares suddenly yelled out.

"Markham!" His voice had a warning tone which caught all our attentions. "Moran—aiming at _you_. Watch out!"

At the shattered door of the wagon opposite stood a tall figure in a long dark coat, instantly recognisable to us all as Colonel Moran. He was dirty; bedraggled; and blood stained his coat on the left side. His face was pale; wrathful; and twisted in a frenzy of emotion. Before any of us could re-act he fired his pistol at Markham.

Markham crouched low as the bullet passed over his head, crashing into the wood behind with a bang. Then he quickly raised his Smith & Wesson .44 to shoulder height and calmly fired three swift shots directly at Moran. After which he lifted his gun-barrel in the air to view the effect.

I saw Moran's body shudder and twitch as at least two of Markham's bullets hit his chest. Then he seemed to be jerked back by an invisible force to sprawl on the wagon-floor—a mere bundle of unmoving rags. At this moment we lost sight of the wagon as it passed to our rear.

"The guard's-van!" Gabrielle had taken the opportunity to glance quickly out the door. "It's only about four hundred yards behind us. Are we goin' t'make the tunnel? An' will it follow us inside?"

Holmes grabbed the splintered edge of the door and took a careful look up and down the line.

"The Tunnel's only another fifty yards away." He spoke as calmly as anyone could, in the circumstances. "The guard's-van has lost most of its momentum. It'll stop somewhere opposite Moran's train, without reaching the Tunnel. We better prepare for the blast."

"I hope no-one's standing at a window anywhere within a radius of about two miles!" Rider Haggard's voice held no trace of humour as he made this simple matter-of-fact remark.

The green banks of the deep cutting suddenly disappeared and our train finally ran under the portal of the railway tunnel, swiftly enveloping us in pitch darkness. Only the light from two oil-lamps broke the gloom around us in the goods-wagon. In another second there was a bright flash and an enormous ground-shaking thump, followed by the most gigantic pressure-wave I have ever experienced. We were all thrown into a heap as the wagon shook around us, before being flung against the side of the tunnel. Thankfully our train was only moving at a little above walking pace. We did, however, feel the vibration as the carriages behind us took the explosion's full force; then we were engulfed in a chokingly thick fog of smoke and dust.

—O—

Our engine and tender remained on the tracks. The goods-wagon we occupied was slumped against the tunnel wall like a drunken man, but was also otherwise largely intact. The two coaches behind, caught in the open by the blast, had been splintered into matchwood.

An hour later we broke through the debris to the fresh air of the cutting again. Xena and Gabrielle eventually led us out, and what met our eyes was like some nightmare from Hell. The grass banks of the cutting had been scorched from top to bottom as if by a forest fire and the remnants of the rails were twisted into the most amazing shapes. A wide shallowish crater showed the centre of the cataclysm. The only recognisable parts of Moran's train remaining were the engine and tender; though even these had been reduced to scrap metal and wheels. Of the rest, including the wagon in which Colonel Moran had been, nothing remained but splintered wood fragments. The authorities, in the form of police-officers and emergency helpers from all over the district, were already doing their best; but there was little they could accomplish.

"Looks like a bad day in Hades." Xena cast a weary eye over the devastation. "Gods, there ain't nothing left at all!"

"The guard's-van's gone, and Moran's wagon." Gabrielle gazed at the scene as if dazed. "Gods, what a mess, Xena. I don't think there's anything—I mean _anything_—left of Moran, do you?"

"Nope!" Xena showed no emotion as she stood beside Gabrielle, with a protective arm round her shoulder.

Holmes returned to us, stumbling over the debris, from where he had exchanged some words with a police-inspector.

"It seems no-one who was in the cutting survived." He looked around him. "There are, apparently, _pieces_ of remains; but nothing that'll ever be identified. All the same, I think we can confidently say Moran is no more."

"Damn straight!" Xena snarled with deep feeling, as she hugged her companion closer.

"Hey ladies, come over here a moment. Wanna talk with ya."

Ares had lost both his sword and dagger in the confusion of the battle and explosion. He was covered in dust, and no-one of the official forces was taking much notice of him. Why he wanted Xena and Gabrielle at this juncture neither Holmes nor I cared. The ladies, somewhat resignedly, walked off to join him while Rider Haggard took my elbow to say something about the devastation in front of us.

The rescue-workers were much further down the line; or where the line used to be. Rider Haggard, Markham, Holmes, and I were in a group twenty yards from the tunnel mouth. Ares had taken Xena and Gabrielle right up to the entrance though not inside, as I saw from the brief glance I cast back in their direction.

Rider Haggard was well into whatever explanation he had to offer Holmes and me; details of which I cannot now remember, when he was interrupted by another flash of that mysterious red light we had experienced earlier. It actually blinded everyone in our small group for a few seconds; though the people further down the cutting apparently saw nothing. Then it passed and we could see the distant rescuers once more.

"That light again! Was that our train catching fire?" Holmes turned round quickly to stare at the tunnel mouth, from where the light had seemed to emanate. "We ought to see if the women and that man, Ares, are alright. He has more to do with this than first appears, I think."

—O—

Little more need be told. Of the women Xena and Gabrielle, and the man Ares, nothing more was ever seen again. Holmes, Rider Haggard, Markham, and I investigated the tunnel mouth and nearby streets. Inspector Lestrade, later, even made his own investigations; but nothing came of these. Holmes castigated his brother Mycroft on the subject, though the political mandarin kept silence; perhaps even he had been taken in! What, in fact, most upset Holmes was the ruffian Ares; his strange red light; and the inexplicable conjuring trick he seemingly accomplished with Markham. All of which went against the careful logic and scientific reality of my friend's world. And Holmes was not happy about it!

Nevertheless, a week later the worst of his grumbling had subsided, although he still fumed intermittently over the peculiar affair. However that evening we had Markham as a welcome visitor, resplendent in new attire. He had been the happy recipient of both the official reward, and another from Mycroft's secretive Government organisation. He was also the proud owner of a note of thanks and a pension from Queen Victoria. He was, in fact, now a respectable member of the community; and told us his plans to buy a new house and open a little shop in the Elephant and Castle district. He was prosperous beyond his wildest dreams; but still nobly gave all the praise for this state of affairs to Gabrielle and Xena.

We had all enjoyed a light supper and were sitting comfortably round the coal fire in our study. Markham with a short, evil-smelling pipe; Holmes with another pipe equally evil-smelling; and I, sipping a cup of coffee. Rider Haggard had gone to France two days previously, for a holiday.

Holmes rose, wrapped in his usual disreputably shabby dressing-gown, and stepped across the room with that feline grace which so characterised him. The evening was beginning to close in, with the first signs of an approaching fog, as he turned from the window looking down on Baker Street to again recline languidly in a battered armchair beside the crackling fire.

"Watson, if I ever again complain about the boring state of the world, feel free to kick me."

"Certainly, Holmes."

"Ha!"

—O—

**Postscript**

The forest was dense, with wide-spreading oaks and sycamores, while the undergrowth too was a tangle of bushes covering all the ground not shaded by the trees. The sun beat warmly down from a cloudless Summer sky, casting flickering shadows on the rough forest-floor and through the distant glades. The camp had been broken up and the equipment put on their pack-horses; while Argo and the brown horse Gabrielle used stood quietly awaiting their riders.

"Xena, I had a really crazy dream last night."

The Amazon scratched her chin as she hitched her waist-belt a trifle higher, then bent to make sure the straps holding her sais were tight round her boots. Standing once more she grinned at the tall dark woman beside her, and raised her arms high in a really good stretch.

"Aaarh! That's better." Gabrielle casually brushed a couple of grass-stalks from the leather top that graced her better half's form. "Gods Xena, you're such a mess anyone'd think you'd been rolling in the hay! And look at me—perfect in every way."

Both women mounted their steeds and moved out slowly along the faint trail that turned and twisted its way under the over-arching branches.

"So, what about this dream?" Xena felt in the mood to listen to one of Gabrielle's stories as they rode through the groves and thickets of the Greek forest. "We've got four hour's riding before we reach Ephesus. The Festival of Diana will just be starting when we get there. That'll be fun. So, this dream of yours—was it, y'know, one of _those_ kinda dreams?"

"Har-de-har, Princess! You wish!" Gabrielle could handle this sort of give and take endlessly, such being her forte. "Nah, it was like this. There was a large dark dirty city; an' strange people; an' strange machines; an' someone who wanted to kill the ruling Queen. No, don't sneer like that, Xena. It was weird—listen; there was a cold but nice man who hunted thieves, and a sort'a medical priest who was also his friend. And how we, _you_ were in my dream too y'know, got involved was —"

**THE END**

—O—

**Notes:—**

1. Mown down by his own scythe. '_Damon the Mower_', Andrew Marvell (1621-1678).

2. Short way with dissenters. '_The Shortest-Way with the Dissenters_'. Daniel Defoe (1661-1731). A political/religious pamphlet, which got the author in a great deal of trouble.

—OOO—


End file.
